Revelations
by katehathaway
Summary: A rebellious prince is fascinated with life beyond the dark and dangerous forest he is forced to live within. On one of his frequent visits to the boundary – journey's explicitly forbidden by his father – Prince Draco sees a young royal. A muggle queen. He knows they are star-crossed. He knows there is no possible way he can win her heart. Yet, he has to try. Royalty AU.
1. The Dawn

_Revelations_

_Rating: _M

_Summary: _A rebellious prince is fascinated with life beyond the dark and dangerous forest he is forced to live within. On one of his frequent visits to the boundary – journey's explicitly forbidden by his father – Prince Draco sees a young royal. A muggle queen. He knows they are star-crossed. He knows there is no possible way he can win her heart. Yet, he has to try. [A slow-burn romance, a deal with a Dark Lord, and an imminent war. Royalty. AU.]

**A/N – **This is set in a universe with Potterverse-magic but is also very AU. The physical world of the story is mostly AU (influenced by the Palace of Versailles among others) with nomenclature from canon HP. Some of the plot was influenced by _The Little Mermaid_ but you will soon see that it is an entirely different story.

. . .

**_Chapter 1 - The__ Dawn_**

. . .

_11 November 1359_

_10:58 pm_

The palace's corridors were frigid with the onset of winter winds and the dimly lit candles did little help warm or light them.

He tripped for the tenth time as he sprinted through the lower levels of the palace; his chest heaving and constricting with every step. Running at his age was nearly more surprising than the magical object he clutched to his chest.

The stone was heavy, weighing down his frail, sinewy body, but his dirty fingernails gripped it so tightly it was as if the stone was more important than life itself. In a way, it was.

He came to an abrupt stop at the end of the narrow corridor and banged three times on the brick wall; seconds later it shifted loudly and slid to the left, revealing a tall bearded man on the other side.

The man inhaled sharply at him and stared, bewildered, at the cloth-covered object in his arms. The man ushered him inside the spacious room and quickly replaced the hidden door in the wall.

"Your Grace," He greeted, offering a swift bow before settling the heavy stone on the table between them.

"I trust no one followed you?" The man – the King – asked.

"No, Your Grace." He replied.

"Good." The King paused, stroking his polished, dark beard with one of his hands. His eyes fixated on the object in the center of the table, never letting his eyes wander from it.

"Well," continued the King. "Let's see it, then."

He removed the wrapped cloth from around the stone to reveal its true form. A ruby red stone, roughly the size of a goblet, gleamed beneath the only source of light in the room – a torch held by His Majesty – and caused the King to take another sharp intake of breath.

"This is what he's after?" The King asked.

"Yes, Your Grace," He answered. "He's on his way to the palace now, with his followers."

"You're sure it's safe here?" The King tore his blue eyes away from the stone for a moment and narrowed them at him.

"I'm not sure it's safe anywhere if _he's_ after it, but this is the best place to hide it. The palace is extremely well-guarded and," His dark eyes flickered to his most-prized creation. "The stone has a way of protecting itself. It contains very powerful magic."

"Yes, you said." The King sighed and gestured to the more conventional exit of the staircase behind him. "What do you call it?"

"Your Grace?"

"The stone." He clarified. "What is its name? If I'm going to be hiding it away in my palace for you, I'd very much like to know what it's called."

"The Philosopher's Stone." He supplied with an anxious smile.

"Hmm." The King closed the heavy door behind them and lead them down the corridor and into the dungeons, where the rest of the nobility were securely awaiting the siege to end. "The name is very fitting, Grand Master Flamel."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

. . .

_19 September 1455_

_1:13 pm_

"Hermione dear, hold – "

"Minerva, _please_."

The older woman narrowed her gaze. With a flick of her wrist, the handmaiden at Hermione's feet quickly scampered out of the room, closing the enormous wooden door with a deafening sound that echoed off the palace walls.

"Do not interrupt. Not only is it rude, but it's especially _unladylike_."

"Yes, Minerva."

Her beady eyes analyzed Hermione with excruciating precision.

"You might as well sit down, dear, it seems you've already made yourself quite comfortable."

Hermione winced. Her posture was always a topic of discussion, and no matter how many times she reflexively snapped her shoulder blades back and tilted her chin up in fear of the disapproving look she was currently receiving, it was never straight enough for Minerva McGonagall.

Minerva was one of the only people (re: _the_ only person) capable of reprimanding her without threat of treason. Though the woman may be well below Hermione's stature, she had been a close friend to her mother and father, and to her father's parents before that. To say she was well-established in the palace would be an understatement.

High up on the – unfortunately for Hermione very long – list of behaviors that Minerva disapproved of, would be anything that contributed to or was innately _unladylike_. Naturally, these were the behaviors Hermione found herself frequently partaking in. (Hermione's handmaidens and ladies had been reprimanded often for lacing Hermione's corset so loose that according to her Mistress she may as well have not been wearing one at all. Evidently, poor spinal form was of the utmost heinous crimes a young, sheltered royal could commit.)

It wasn't as if Minerva was cruel. No, of course not. Shrewd, possibly. Demanding, certainly.

"There are rules, dear. Rules are made to be followed. Not bent. Not broken. You should do well to remember this, because soon the enforcement of the rules of the kingdom will be entirely in your hands. I aim to make sure they are capable of withstanding such pressures. Now," Mistress Minerva pursed her lips, "three more times."

Hermione fought the urge to chew her lip – another habit of hers that Minerva painstakingly corrected – and lowered herself, as gracefully as she could manage with a dozen books atop her head, into a curtsy. When she'd righted herself successfully (barely, but still), she locked eyes with the woman in search of approval she knew she wouldn't receive.

Now, she stood as erect as she could possibly manage with the pins sticking into her torso and legs.

"My apologies, Minerva."

"Do not apologize." She sighed. "You are a royal - a queen - Hermione. As fond as I am of politeness, even I cannot pretend there are not rules in place that clearly state a royal should never apologize to anyone below her stature." Her mouth pressed into a thin line, but Hermione could see the crease around her eyes soften slightly. Her tone lightened subtly, "You are Queen now, and, God rest the former King and Queen, I will make sure of it that you are ready for such a role."

Hermione frowned. She felt the usual headache, prompted by the mention of her future, starting at the base of her neck.

Technically she had been Queen since she was nearly two years of age, but due to some archaic law, she could not ascend to the title formally until she was the ripe age of eighteen. Due to such circumstances, her dear Uncle Colbert took his place as Regent.

That was all going to change today, though, as today was Hermione's eighteenth birthday and she could rightfully claim her place atop the throne and assume her role in ruling her country. However, her council - along with that pesky archaic role - insisted that she be married to an appropriate King consort before her official coronation.

Because heaven forbid a woman rule her own kingdom without a man by her side.

"Now," Minerva stated, gliding across the room to knock loudly on the chamber doors. The handmaids followed her to where Hermione stood atop the low platform. "Let's finish this one task without any more opposition, shall we? We have many more to accomplish before the day is done."

She nodded firmly, then turned her attention to the two women at her feet. She nodded once to them, acquiescing them to touch her.

"Your Majesty," they breathed in unison, bowing respectfully before continuing with their work.

"And Hermione?" Minerva called over her shoulder, "Happy Birthday, dear."

She offered her friend and advisor a forced smile before the woman disappeared behind the heavy wooden doors, leaving Hermione to suffer through the remainder of her fitting alone.

Hermione drew her focus away from the handmaids and toward the wall in front of her covered with marble panels and decorated with trophies of arms in gilded bronze. Her gaze wandered up to the ceiling to take in the decorated cupula and arches.

Most of the rooms in the palace had decorated ceilings that followed a similar theme to the purpose of the room. The War Room was adorned with bronze-gilded weapons while its ceilings depicted many famous battles that occurred within the kingdom, such as the First War and the Wizard War. The Peace Room, however, contained bronze-gilded statues of the heads of infamous liaisons and advisors with its ceiling depicting a time of balance and fruition within the kingdom.

This room was not as notable as the War Room and the Peace Room, though it was used far more often on a daily basis. There were so many boudoir rooms in the palace that there weren't formal names for all of them, but Hermione had taken from her mother in referring to this one as the Beau Boudoir because of the scenes depicted on its ceilings.

There were several beautiful women, nude except for ivory smocks lazily draped over their painted bodies, seen lounging around with various fruits between their delicate fingers. All were depicted with the same carefree smile and twinkle in their eyes.

Hermione took deep breaths – as deep as she possibly could with pins threatening to break the skin of her abdomen and hips – and let the happiness of the beautiful women above her seep into her pores and calm her nerves.

She would be fine. Everything would be fine.

. . .

_19 September 1455_

_3:20 pm_

Hermione threw open the doors to her bed chambers without waiting for the guards outside to open it for her or announce her presence. Minerva would scold her for such behavior. But Minerva wasn't present, and Hermione was tired of playing by the rules. There was only so many consecutive hours she could uphold her royal etiquette before imploding.

Two young girls – purposefully chosen to be Hermione's age – sat beneath the windowsill of the antechamber of her rooms with serene expressions and soft smiles as the cool autumn air played with their hair. One abruptly stood at the sound of Hermione's entrance.

"Your Highness," she said, hurriedly curtsying.

"Oh, please, Daph. Not today with that nonsense. Besides, Minerva's not here, it's just me." She huffed.

Hermione glided across the room and sank between the two girls on the cushioned seat, letting her skirts bunch up beneath her legs as she tucked them beneath her. She turned to face the other girl, the one who did not rise to greet her upon her arrival. The one who hadn't so much as looked at her yet.

"What's wrong with you, cat got your tongue?"

"Hardly," she rolled her eyes.

A hiss emulated across the room, from where an orange cat appeared and padded its way over to rub its cheeks against the bottoms of Hermione's very uncomfortable shoes. She kicked off the heels and scooped the feline up into her lap, burying him among her skirts and stroking his long fur until she could feel his vibratory satisfaction.

"Speak of the devil and he doth appear."

Hermione scowled before turning her attention to the cat cocooned in her lap, "Don't listen to Lady Parkinson, Crookshanks. She didn't mean it."

Pansy scoffed, "Of course, I did."

"_Pans_." The other girl warned from behind Hermione.

"What, Daphne? It's true. He doesn't like _anybody_ except Her Royal Highness." She said, her words dripping with sarcasm at Hermione's title.

To be fair, Hermione had insisted upon it. Something about them keeping her sane by not being surrounded by people who were so dreadfully polite all the time. Whatever the case, it didn't matter to Pansy. Perks of being one of the richest heiresses in the kingdom, she supposed, along with being best friends to the heir to the throne. Pansy quite enjoyed being able to speak her mind freely, and she didn't plan on holding back if she could help it.

"He has a peculiar taste." Hermione offered in support of her beloved cat.

"He has ridiculous taste." Corrected Pansy, "And a ridiculous name."

"_Pansy!"_ Daphne scolded.

"I keep telling you," Pansy said, ignoring Daphne and instead addressing Hermione, "You're going to have to change his name. Or at the very least, call him something else publicly."

"Why?" Hermione asked, rubbing her knuckles under the cat's chin as he purred in delight.

"Because no self-respecting man would want your kingdom knowing it came with _that._" She gestured to the cat, which turned to hiss at her in response, prompting a chuckle from Hermione. "Especially when _that_ has such a hideous name and terrible manners."

"You're incorrigible." Daphne sighed.

Pansy shrugged in response.

"But," Daphne ventured, craning her neck to meet Hermione's eyes. "You _do_ have to think of how to entice a husband before the end of the week."

Hermione groaned, "Please, Daph, don't remind me."

She let the feline jump from her lap and settle himself on a velvet seat in front of the fireplace. The air whistled across her face and entangled itself among her curls, wrestling them around her blushing face.

"It's all so unfair."

"Ah, yes," Pansy feigned a pout, "the poor young queen. How unfair it is that you should inherit an entire kingdom to rule at the cost of one meager, possibly power-hungry man."

"See, that's just it, isn't it?" Hermione frowned, unable to stop herself from chewing the inside of her cheek. One habit – fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how one looks at it – that escaped Minerva's keen eye and unrelenting training. "How can I possibly choose a suitable husband when I know the only reason that they're even coming to my kingdom this week is to fight over who will win it? I am _not_ some prize to be won. Neither is my kingdom or its people. It's heinous. I have arguably the most freedom in any given room, and yet, I also find that I have the least."

Pansy opened her mouth to add what could only have been another snarky comment, but promptly shut it at Daphne's glare.

"Hermione," Daphne said, brushing her fingertips along the girl's spine. "I know it seems unfair, but I'm afraid that's the law. It's never been kind to women, no matter their stature."

It couldn't have been intended to be a harsh reminder of Daphne's own lack of titles given the girl's naturally soft nature and fear of conflict, but it served as one, nonetheless.

Daphne Greengrass was enviably beautiful with her golden curls and bright green eyes, and as if that weren't enough to warrant any young man into falling to his knees, she was also the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country. Though, she wasn't titled. It remained one of her sore spots and was likely the reason she was also unmarried.

Hermione sighed and leaned away from the chill breeze and into the warm embrace of her gentle friend.

"I - " she started to say _I'm sorry_, but quickly refrained from doing so as Minerva's voice echoed in her thoughts.

_A royal should never apologize to anyone below her stature_.

True, these were her two best friends and had been since she could walk, but the nagging feeling that Minerva would be disappointed had the apology slipped overruled her desire to comfort her friend.

"I shouldn't complain." She settled on, eyeing Daphne in particular, "Don't worry. I'll make sure you're settled with a respectable husband."

"Thank you, Your Highness," and this time when Daphne spoke Hermione's title it was with playful fondness.

"Preferably one with a title," Pansy interjected, ruining the soft moment as she typically did.

"Then, I suppose I'll have to find one with a title for you, too, hm?"

"I already have a title," she pointed out, then turned to dreamily look out the window and into the vast hills below. "Though, I do suppose another couldn't hurt."

"How many names _do _you have again?" Daphne asked.

Pansy waved a hand, "Too many to count,"

"Four," Hermione supplied, shaking her head not-so-disapprovingly at Pansy, who smirked in response.

Yes, Lady Pansy Parkinson. Her formal name was abhorrently long (Pansy Parkinson, Lady of Great Lake, Lady of Serpentine, Lady of The Sacred, and Viscountess of Knockturn, if you must know). Unlike Daphne, Pansy was well endowed with riches _and_ titles (obviously) so why wasn't she happily married to some Duke or the like? Mostly likely (re: _very _likely) due to her brazen demeanor. That and her father's reluctance to marry his only daughter off to any man less than a prince.

"Well," she stood up and brushed her skirts into submission.

Hermione sighed at Pansy's innately perfect posture. In fact, not a single raven hair was out of place which was arguably the more enviable trait to Hermione.

"Shall we get you all dolled up while the sun is still out?" Pansy continued. "I'd hate to imagine how much worse we can be with taming your wild curls into submission when we _can't _see what they're up to."

Daphne stood and skipped gleefully over to the chest at the end of Hermione's enormous bed. She threw it open began pulling bits and bobs out to lay next to the recently finished gown draped across the velvet tufted ottoman.

Hermione moved closer to inspect the jewelry being set out for her evening ensemble. She let out a hot breath of air as Pansy loosened the corset beneath the gown she wore, stripping her in preparation of her bath.

"Hm," she leaned over to caress a small, silver diadem. "This one?"

"No," Daphne said definitively, flicking her fingers away.

"The gold one," both Daphne and Pansy said in unison.

. . .

_19 September 1455_

_4:50 pm_

"Ah, come on, Your Highness. Now, you're not even _trying_."

"_Incendio!"_

A patch of dirt exploded to his immediate left. He dove out of the way of the next shot, resisting the urge to watch the tree behind him light afire. Instead, he flicked his wrist and pulled himself to his feet as his opponent flew backwards and landed with a loud thud on the dampened earth.

"That was hardly your best effort," the other boy insisted, wincing as he raised his head.

He scoffed, "Oh, it definitely was _not_ my best effort, or you wouldn't be breathing right now, Nott. I only intended to shut you up."

"Failed at that, too, then. My, my . . . what a terribly ungifted prince, you are."

A red flare shot from the end of his brandished wand to the miniscule gap between the other boy's splayed fingers. The boy pulled his hand back reflexively and glared up at the platinum-haired arrogant git that was his best friend.

"_Draco_," the boy growled, flexing his long, deft fingers as way of inspection. Though, they'd been purposefully avoided, and he knew it.

"_Theodore_," he replied in the same chiding tone.

Theo raised his wand at the smug look on his friend's face, "That's my father's name and you know better than to use it with me. You know I _loathe_ having to share it."

"Oh, is that right? You going to do anything about it, then?" Draco taunted, his lips twitching into a smirk.

"You're bloody right, I'm going to - "

"Oi!" A third voice interrupted. A dark haired, beautiful boy strode over to stand between the two of them. He glared at both of them with equal looks of disapproval despite knowing very well who had likely instigated the duel. "We don't have time for this." He turned to face Draco, "_You_," – he jabbed a finger at Draco's chest – "are supposed to be getting ready for the _actual_ duel scheduled for this evening, not play fighting with this fool." He turned to face Theo and jabbed a finger in his ribs, causing the other boy to double over briefly, "and _you_ are supposed to be _helping_ him prepare for the tournament!"

Theo, coughing as he regained an upright position, "I _am_ helping him. We're practicing." At the other's raised brows and crossed arms that clearly indicated he disagreed; Theo amended his statement. "Fine, fine, Blaise. We're going, we're going!" He yanked Draco by his elbow.

Blaise shook his head as the two of them disappeared towards the center of town, calling loudly after them, "I'll be checking in on you, so don't get any more funny ideas!" He groaned, then muttered to himself something obscene and wholly treasonous.

Draco shoved his wand into the waistband of his trousers and hung his arm off of Theo's shoulders.

"That was quite fun," he said.

Theo shook his head, "You want to die, is that it?"

"As I recall, _Theo_, you were every bit as involved in that little act of defiance as I was."

"Oh, sure. Blame the help!" He rolled his eyes, shoving Draco away with a jab of his elbow.

As much as Theo joked about being beneath Draco's stature, he wasn't far below it. He _certainly _was not 'the help' or so he'd put it. Theodore Nott, Jr was every bit as wealthy and titled as his old man was, though that's most definitely where their similarities ended. While Nott, Sr was cold and calculating – and no doubt somehow after the throne – while his son was kind and honest – and in no way after his best friend's throne.

"So," Theo started once they'd reached Draco's chambers. "Have you decided which lovely brute you're going to force to spend the rest of eternity with you?"

Draco spared his friend the satisfaction of an exasperated expression, offering only a shrug while turning away to select his best set of dress trousers for the dinner that was to precede the week's festivities.

"You do know that's the entire reason your father wants you to showboat this tournament, don't you?"

"I'm well aware of that," he replied dryly.

"Well," Theo prompted, "What are you going to do?"

"Most definitely not listen to my father."

"Probably a sound idea, except for the fact that if you don't choose some dull bride, _he_ will do it for you."

Draco sighed. It was true, his father has been telling him for nearly three years now to choose a queen consort. He was getting old and wanted to ensure he still had time to teach (re: bully) whomever Draco wed into being a suitable fit for the throne.

"Maybe if I'm lucky, I can procrastinate it another year." He mused.

"Doubt it," Theo scoffed. He crossed his arms as he fell back against a cushioned sofa at the foot of Draco's bed frame. He eyed Draco's choices of formal tops from where he lay. "Not that one," he added as Draco seemed to decide on an obtusely large white shirt.

"The silver one," Blaise offered, stepping into the large room and joining Theo on the velvet loveseat, pushing his feet to the floor with a reprimanding look. "He's right though, you know, about your father."

"Well, _you would know_, wouldn't you?" Theo questioned, bringing his feet back up to drape them across Blaise's lap.

"Just because _I_ listen to the King, doesn't make me some swotty lackey of his."

Theo raised his brows as if to say, _Doesn't it?_

Blaise purposefully ignored it and directed his attention back to Draco, who had just traipsed over to the clawfoot tub in a room adjacent to the one they were in, refusing to listen to them banter about his future betrothals.

He was sick and tired of his father so-called supervising everything he did; Draco couldn't so much as step outside the Manor for a breath of fresh air or wander through the market for new training gear without his father's permission. Though, he had become incredibly adept at sneaking away.

Everything was a façade; The King and Queen appeared to be the most loving and doting parents a royal child could ever dream of having. Outsiders saw Lucius teaching Draco how to wield his wand in the most proficient manner so as to cast spells more accurately toward his opponent. They saw Narcissa playing with him in the courtyard as a child, and then reading him bedtime stories at night.

In reality, Draco was marginally closer with his mother.

But what the outsiders didn't see was the truth between the lies. Lucius constantly scolding Draco for poor form and making him practice day in and day out for tournaments that did little more than entertain bored aristocrats. Narcissa begging nannies to stay for more than a fortnight – Draco was rebellious since birth which drove away every nanny in the kingdom – and then giving up and letting Draco run rampant until Lucius would punish him.

As for the King and Queen themselves, well. . . let's just say _their_ marriage was purely based on alliances and gold. The Black family was one of the few families to survive the war with a substantial amount of wealth left, and even a hundred years later they were still significantly wealthier than any other wizarding family. As it turns out, running a kingdom can be quite expensive, so Abraxas Malfoy (Draco's grandfather and the previous King) arranged for the most eligible Black daughter to marry his only son.

Being as his parents were a poor role model, marriage was something Draco had very little interest in, especially since his own was going to do little more than strengthen an alliance with another House.

The four Houses were in somewhat of a peaceful time at the moment, but it was all too new and so one could not be too careful as to seclude oneself from the others. Power was in numbers, as they say, and Slytherin had suffered a great deal in the Dark War and has yet to return to an acceptable standing, despite holding the crown.

Replenishment would be necessary, ergo Draco's marriage would be inevitable this year. He was nearly of age (nine months short but who was really counting), and there was nothing more he could do to postpone his father's intentions.

Draco sunk his silvery blonde head into the lukewarm bath water and tried to clear his thoughts.

Among all the lies, the illusions that everything was perfect and beloved in the Manor, Draco wanted one thing about his life to be real. _Just one._ Was that too much to ask for? Was that _so hard_?

It was as if the life he was currently living was not meant for him. He was but a shell of a man living in some world that did not belong to him.

. . .

_19 September 1455_

_8:00 pm_

"Lady Lovegood," the King greeted with a forced smile upon his thin lips; he gestured to his right, "My wife, Queen Narcissa," and then to his left, "My son, Prince Draco."

The young blonde, not _quite_ making eye contact with either party as they were introduced, curtsied deeply and nodded to each of them respectively.

"Thank you, Your Majesty, for inviting me into your home." She said, her words as light and airy as she was, teetering on the balls of her feet beneath her plentiful skirts. "I'm amazed at how little Nargles there are buzzing around this place. Much more in my home, I daresay." She let out a peel of laughter; her cheeks deepening in color, "Really, it's a wonder there are any here at all with what little mistletoe there is in this estate." She craned her neck towards the high ceilings above the entrance to the dining area.

Draco exchanged a weary glance with his father, then muttered under his breath, "She can't be serious."

Lucius shook his head once, administering his best look of disapproval, though Draco could tell it was feigned.

"That's no way to treat our guests, Draco. Do be a good host and help her to her seat, will you?"

Draco was reluctant to ask, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Where will Lady Lovegood be sitting, Father?"

"Next to you."

_Obviously._

Another feast, another tournament, and another potential bride thrown into his grasp.

He sighed inwardly but extended a charming smile and his arm for her to take, which she did after several awkward moments of it lingering in midair between them.

When dinner was to commence, King Lucius stood with his goblet raised and waited – not long – to gather everyone's attention. As the crowd of people around the long dining table quieted and turned to face their king, Draco exchanged a knowing glance with Theo. He, in turn, raked a thumb across his throat and let his tongue fall from his lips as he crossed his eyes. Both boys stifled laughs as they feigned interest in what was about to be King Lucius's retelling of the Dark War.

Ah, yes. Draco had heard this particular tale one hundred too many times, but it was that time of year when the entire House of Slytherin would be forced to endure the retelling as well.

It went something like this:

There was a time when the four Houses lived in harmony with the muggle world. For centuries, the magical kingdom and the muggle kingdom thrived off of one another and grew to value each other's differences. The four Houses would share their strengths with the muggles, as best they could without delving too deeply into the secrets of their sorcery. When the muggles sought bravery, they visited the House of Gryffindor and sat amongst their warriors so as to learn their trade (only the physical portion, of course). When the muggles sought wisdom, they visited the House of Ravenclaw and read from their abundant libraries (limited to all but the restricted section). When the muggles sought fairness, they visited the House of Hufflepuff and requested an audience with their judge as he was the most just in all the kingdoms (supposedly). When the muggles sought ambition, they visited the House of Slytherin and learned the art of war (because honestly, it's all good and well to be able to throw a sword, but worth nothing if not first calculated or theorized) from its high-ranking soldiers and nobility.

The four Houses occupied the four corners of the country encompassing the muggle kingdom that occupied the center of the country whose borders touched all four Houses. As legend has it, wizards and muggles lived peacefully for many centuries, until a Dark Lord rose to power.

Lord Voldemort was not the King of the magical kingdom – he was merely a powerful wizard from the House of Slytherin – though he didn't need to be with the amount of power he accumulated, and from whom he accumulated it from. He had purposefully maimed and murdered hundreds of muggles before he could be stopped. But by then it was too late. The muggles no longer sought virtuous traits from the magical kingdom, but rather bloodshed and vengeance. They wanted the wizards to pay for the sins of the Dark Lord. And so, the Dark War endured. Muggles hunted wizards. Wizards hunted muggles. It continued for nearly a decade until, finally, the House of Slytherin (suffering the most from the war due to the Dark Lord's origin) decided to put a stop to the war. They devised a plan with the House of Ravenclaw to shield themselves from the muggle world and advised the Houses of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff to do the same.

The Dark War ended nearly a century ago and, although it would soon be approaching two decades of peace, the muggles had clearly not forgotten this tryst.

Or so King Lucius claimed every time he retold the story.

Draco, however, believed differently.

. . .

_19 September 1455_

_8:15 pm_

Hermione shuffled in her seat, attempting to itch her outer thigh where the lace of her newly-made gown scratched repeatedly at her sides. It had already been uncomfortable to wear during the fitting, but it was completely unbearable to sit in now as she waited for the announcements and introductions of her suitors.

Tonight, began what would be nearly a week-long event at winning not only her hand in marriage, but also king consort to her throne.

She fidgeted once more, more anxious as time passed at who her suitors were to be. Minerva noticed the repetitive motion and swatted at her clenched fists with a grimace.

"Hermione," she reprimanded, "do stop that. Remember, you are - "

"A queen now. I know."

"Do not - "

"Interrupt." She sighed, pressing her lips together and letting a release of air out of her nose instead, opting for the less obvious sign of frustration.

"Mistress Minerva," A deep voice cut in.

Hermione's head turned at the familiar, glacial sound of her uncle's voice. His beady eyes were focused on her despite his acknowledgement of her advisor beside her. He gave a pathetic bow with his eyes flickering to the shining gold atop her head.

"I suppose I should call you Your Majesty now," he stated icily.

"Unless you want to be hanged for treason," Hermione countered sweetly, plastering a smile across her lips.

"Hermione," Minerva scolded.

Hermione held up a hand to silence her advisor. Typically, she wouldn't dare exert such offensive behavior despite her status in comparison to her friend, but in the presence of her uncle, she could afford to display no sign of weakness.

"It's alright, Minerva, surely Uncle Colbert understands that I'm only joking." Her dark eyes narrowed at her uncle's green ones.

His face remained still as stone until he nodded and replied, "Of course, niece, I would never do anything to upset the Crown."

"Nor will you ever wear it again."

Minerva may have let in a sharp intake of breath, but Uncle Colbert hardly showed any sign of offense at the accusation. Save for the slight twitch of his upper lip.

Hermione turned away from him and back to the festivities unraveling before her. As the sole and rightful monarch, there was nothing more either of the two adults flanking her throne could say or do since she had so clearly moved on and ended any further discussion on the subject.

Minerva looked as if she was going to continue scolding her until a ceremonial trumpeting disrupted the attempt. She closed her mouth, turning her attention towards the deep red aisle in front of her (the aisle stretched down the center of the Royal Way, an expansive walkway that cut through the middle of the gardens to create a spectacular view known as the Grande Perspective), but not before sparing a final disapproving look at the young royal.

Hermione pointedly did not meet her advisor's eye. She took the opportunity to twirl a nervous finger around a curl that had sprung loose from her elaborate hairdo while Minerva had no chance of reprimanding her. As the second set of trumpets and drums sounded through the gardens, however, she dropped the ringlet, shoved her shoulders back, and aimed her chin upward as high as only royalty could socially do.

"Presenting," the announcer boasted, "Lord Viktor Krum, Baron of Durmstrang."

A young man, though most likely older than Hermione based on his physique and height alone, strode towards her from the end of the garnet aisle. His dark hair glistened from the fire light of the torches lit among the walkway. His shoulders visibly tensed as he drew as near as socially accepted to the throne on which she was seated. When he bent his torso forward, he kept his eyes on the floor for only the briefest of moments before daring to raise his gaze to rest upon hers. Hermione internally stiffened but knew better than to display such an obvious expression of distaste for his boldness. She lifted her chin slightly, allowing him the chance to speak.

"Your Highness," he said; his voice low and deep. There was a slight accent present that she couldn't quite pin to a particular region. "There have been many tales of your beauty, but none were able to accurately depict the divinity with which I am lucky enough to bear witness to tonight."

Hermione felt her pulse quicken as his dark eyes lingered too long on hers. He was attractive, almost _too _attractive to be trustworthy. Certainly, too attractive to be giving her poetic speeches of her so-called divine beauty. She nodded curtly to dismiss him without a word. No favors would be shown to these men who yearned so obviously for her throne. Not without properly earning it, that is.

Without a moment to catch her breath, the announcer presented the next suitor.

"Lord Neville Longbottom, of Diagon."

A tall, lanky fellow with ashy blonde hair likely thicker than her own, somehow, walked at too brisk pace for most of the aisle. He seemed to realize this though as he slowed down to a more comfortable stroll until he stopped at a respectable distance. He appeared to be better acquainted with what was expected of him, but it was as if he hadn't truly solidified his schooling in etiquette. She could practically see the wheels turning beneath his fragile gaze, constantly overthinking what to do. Thankfully, this one didn't venture into some tale about her grace or something or another. She mentally noted to speak to him first, when the time came for her to interact with the suitors. He seemed the least likely to bully her or trick her into marriage.

Perhaps he would make a suitable king consort. He was definitely unrefined. Hermione figured with his hesitant and unskilled behavior; she could manipulate him accordingly as she went about ruling her kingdom.

"Lord Michael Corner, of Diagon."

Ah. Of course, there _would_ be a Corner in the running, wouldn't there? She knew there were several men in the family, some of which had to be considered suitable enough for a chance at her throne. Though, she couldn't imagine why the family decided to send this one.

He seemed reasonably built, as much so as the previous suitors. Whereas Lord Krum had been too forward and Lord Longbottom too recluse, this one seemed too – she paused her inner analyzation as she searched for the word, but with a lopsided smirk from the suitor, it jumped at her – _arrogant_. Perhaps that is why the Corner family sent this son. He said nothing more but gave her an oddly deep nod and a narrowed gaze, as if to say _I may not have prepared a speech for you, but nonetheless, I will be the one you choose. The one you beg for._

She didn't much care for his reckless grin. It told her he was not one to be put in his place and that was not the type of man she wanted to hand her throne over to. He would have to prove his worth to her quickly if he intended on gaining any favor from her.

"Lord Henry Potter, of Grimmauld."

A man with dark hair, possibly more unruly than her own, strode confidently down the aisle and stopped abruptly. He stared at her for a moment, and she at him, then blinked. Suddenly, Hermione felt drawn to his jewel-toned eyes. They were mesmerizing and so difficult to tear her gaze from. It was only when he bowed, considerably later than what would be considered respectful, did she realize how much time had passed while they'd been staring at each other.

He lingered in that position longer than necessary as well. Interesting, that he should have the title of nobility, but what seemed to be none of its upbringing. It was as if he was merely thrown into the act only weeks ago. Very peculiar, indeed.

When he righted himself, he locked his emerald eyes with her brown ones and offered her a wayward smile along with a whispered, "Your Highness."

"Lord Potter," She softly replied.

"Please," he insisted, "Call me Harry, Your Highness."

He swiftly exited as she caught her breath. She felt Minerva and Uncle Colbert's eyes boring into her and willed the color not to rise in her cheeks as her temperature increased.

She should not have spoken to him.

But something in his eyes were so inviting to her. So familiar. It had been difficult not only to look away, but to not respond to them.

She waited for the next suitor, but the announcer did not sound the trumpet or make any sort of announcement for a long minute, prompting Hermione to turn to Lady Parkinson and Miss Greengrass who had moved to stand beside her in the place of her uncle who had no doubt trudged off in search of some good port to drown his regent-less sorrows in.

"Is that all of them?" She asked, embarrassingly unable to withhold the disappointment from her tone.

"Did you want more? Because that can certainly be arranged." Minerva cut in, much to Hermione's dismay.

Disapproval dripped from her tongue. An arch of her silver eyebrow warned Hermione to choose her next words very carefully.

She fought a grimace, smiling through gritted teeth. "No, that's quite all right. It appears I have my work cut out for me as it is."

. . .

_19 September 1455_

_8:57 pm_

"Did you know," Lord Longbottom said, "that pears are abundant this season? We have quite a ridiculous amount at my estate this year and, although I do love them, I'm not entirely sure what to do with so many!"

He seemed to think this was . . . charming? No that wasn't quite right. Perhaps, intriguing? Hermione fought to keep a polite smile on her rouge lips and lifted her skirts as they walked through the paths of the gardens.

"Tragedy," She commented, hoping he would move on from the subject.

"Oh, yes, it is." No such luck for her then, it seemed. "It would be terribly awful if they all - "

"Lord Longbottom," The arrogant suitor cut in – Corner, she reminded herself – "Your Highness," he nodded to both of them, but his eyes lingered on Hermione's with his arm outstretched. "May I?"

She nodded and folded her arms within his without a word.

"You look lovely this evening, Your Highness," he said, leading her along the winding path that enveloped the gardens.

She _did _look lovely, thanks to her ever-adoring ladies and Minerva's strict instructions.

_Oh, no, dear. You must wear garnet. It's tradition._

Her ball gown and corset were a deep, rich red entwined with gold lace and detailing, to which Pansy and Daphne were adamant enough about pairing with the golden tiara atop her neatly pinned curls. Her head was throbbing from the number of pins and bobs lodged in among the wayward ringlets.

_Hold still, Hermione! Only one more. . . No, I know I said that a minute ago. . . Well, this time I mean it! It can't come loose or we're surely never going to hear the end of it from Minerva._

"You are very kind," She offered in acknowledgement to the young Lord. "Please, call me Hermione."

He seemed pleased with this small triumph, "Very well, _Hermione_."

Her name had never felt more foreign on another person's tongue. This was going to be a long, torturous week of festivities after all.

They talked about nothing of importance – at least, not in her perspective – for what seemed to be ages when she was rudely (though, thankfully) interrupted and escorted back to the main entertainment space by Lady Four-Names.

"You're a lifesaver," she breathed when out of earshot. She felt her shoulders sag and let her neck roll to relieve some of the tension she'd built up over mingling for the past hour. There was a sharp jab between her shoulder blades. "Ouch!" She turned to face Pansy with a grimace, "What was that for?"

"Firstly, don't ruin your posture. It's unladylike. Secondly," She jabbed Hermione again, - "Ouch, Pans!" – "don't you dare tell anyone I saved your life, or I shall swiftly end mine for there is no point in continuing with such a spoiled reputation." She lifted her nose in feigned (hopefully) disgust.

Hermione shook her head, "You're mad."

Pansy shrugged.

"So, how are they?" Daphne asked the moment they had returned to the main celebration.

"Positively horrendous," Hermione sighed. She double, then triple, checked to make sure Minerva was well out of earshot before continuing. "I can't possibly imagine loving any of them nor spending the rest of my life with them."

Daphne visibly deflated.

"Who says you have to love them?" Pansy suggested. Daphne quickly supplied her with a pinch on her forearm. "Ouch, Daph!"

Hermione let out a quiet laugh, pinching Pansy's other arm. When the girl yelped again, Hermione only wiggled her brows as if to say, _Hm, what's that? You don't like when other people physically reprimand you?_

The small firecracker display that had been arranged to assist in concluding that night's events began to go off. In that same moment, Hermione noticed out of the corner of her eye, two very disturbing things. The first being the two men she hadn't had a chance to discuss nonsense with in length approaching her in some attempt at securing her last conversation of the night. The second being that even farther away from them, a tuft of orange fur had darted down the hill and towards the Forbidden Forest.

She turned to her ladies, and shouted, "Corset's too tight!" before running off after the second problem.

Pansy and Daphne gave each other a knowing look, interpreting the code they'd created – and since added to – when first becoming Hermione's ladies. It was helpful in times like these, when too many prying ears were within earshot for Hermione to be blatantly and emergently honest.

Both girls divided among the approaching men and led them back towards the dancing and the music, promising a refreshed young monarch first thing tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Hermione ran – _very_ unladylike – down the hill in what had to be the worst possible outfit to sprint into the woods.

. . .

_19 September 1455_

_9:01 pm_

"You see, it's your aura. It's. . ." She paused, looking for the most appropriate word. "_off_."

Draco wanted to bash his head into the table. Lady Lovegood – already nicknamed Loony Lovegood by Theo – was far too talkative for his taste. Sure, he liked a good argument and genuine conversation – honestly probably more than the next guy – but this was complete and utter _bollocks_.

Only once so far in conversation had he made the mistake of questioning what exactly a _snorflax_ was and what a _dinglehopper_ did but learned his lesson quickly. Nod and smile. Just nod and smile.

He met Theo's conniving look from across the table and tapped his forefinger once, followed by his middle finger twice, and then by his pinky finger four times. Theo winked his understanding.

Draco turned to his father, talking over Luna's muttered chatter to herself, "Father," He addressed softly, who glanced sideways at him quizzically. "Could I trouble you to excuse Lady Lovegood and I from the festivities early? I would love to show her the rest of the Manor and well," he paused as his throat dried in his lie, "being as she's never been here, I imagine it would take a respectable amount of time to do so properly."

Lucius narrowed his eyes, but nodded anyway, forced to assume innocence out of respect for the guest from Ravenclaw.

"Go on but see to it that you are both back for the duel this evening."

Draco's chair scooted back with a loud screech, and he winced as her chair did the same, alerting the remainder of the dinner party that they were exiting considerably early in the evening. Oh well. It wasn't as if the entire kingdom wasn't already convinced that he was a scoundrel that slept around with the many maidens of Slytherin. What was one Ravenclaw rumor going to do to his reputation?

Theo stood a moment after, nodding solemnly to his father and to the King and Queen, "Goodnight, Your Majesties," he promised before catching up to Draco and Lady Lovegood at the wave of their hands.

Blaise had come running out into the corridor not long after the trio and paused to survey the scene, "What exactly are you two up to now?"

"Blaise," Draco huffed, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to stall long enough for an excuse. It worked because at that precise moment, several loud bangs went off in thunderous applause. His eyes widened in alarm; he nearly tripped as he shoved Lady Lovegood into Blaise's arms. He tore off down the hall with Theo in tow, shouting out behind him as he turned a corner, "Be a gentleman, Blaise, and show Lady Lovegood the Manor, will you?"

He didn't stay to hear the snotty reply he was sure followed. Instead, he raced through the halls and towards the back exit of the Manor. It opened towards the closest point of the boundary. It was evident that the booming explosions were notfrom _their_ festivities. In which case, that could only mean they were coming from the neighboring muggle kingdom.

Draco was familiar with the path through the heavily wooded forest in which their magical kingdom resided that lead to the most optimal viewing point of the muggle palace. He'd frequented it as often as he could since he first discovered it.

Through the deep forest, avoiding the large and protruding roots, and then scaling up the side of a jagged rock would reveal a steep drop-off that overlooked the western edge of the palace gardens. The muggle festivities were in distant view while Draco was perfectly hidden beneath not only the shadows of the rock as well as the illusion of the boundary charm.

"Oi," Theo huffed as he caught up, leaning against one edge of the boulder while catching his breath, "next time, give me a warning, would you?"

Draco wasn't listening. He was preoccupied with observing the party erupting in the distance. He could vaguely make out torches, men and women dressed in expensive formal attire despite being outside among the terraces and the gardens, and flares being set off into the dark sky that would eventually explode into an array of scattered lights.

It was mesmerizing.

He had been fascinated by the neighboring muggles for years; it had all started when he – the young outspoken fool that he was at eleven – attempted to question why muggles were still so terrible if the war was long over. He had been frustrated. His father and mother were of no help as they had constantly shut down his protests and queries. Then, he turned to other trusted advisors. No one, it seemed, in the entire kingdom was willing to talk to him about this particular subject. Eventually, he grew tired of the exasperated looks on their faces and decided not to bring it up anymore.

One day, approximately four years later, he'd been chasing Theo through the forest. They'd been particularly up to no good that day when they ran well past their usual territory in the forest and stumbled upon this hidden gem. Draco wasn't entirely sure what to think of them at first. It wasn't as if they appeared to be as evil and conniving as Father had promised them to be. They didn't look like what any of the legends described them as. Bloodthirsty. Ruthless. Selfish.

Over the next few years, Draco visited this treasure trove as often as he could get away with. Theo mostly followed; he didn't particularly care for the muggles one way or another but was happy to come along on the journey. Draco had originally sought out this observation trove in hopes to prove his father right; to better understand where the entirety of the mistrust the kingdom held for muggles stemmed from. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed when, year after year, the muggles only proved the opposite.

He'd watched from afar as they danced, sang, and celebrated. Not only their own accomplishments, but from what he could see, each _other's_ accomplishments and victories. There was always loud music and plenty of dancing. If Draco were to squint hard enough at the swarm of figures in the distance now, he was certain he would witness the usual push and pull and twirling of a happy couple.

It wasn't as if there was no fun or celebration at wizarding festivities, but certainly none to this extent. Wizards celebrated their victories. . . differently, he supposed.

"_Draco!"_ Theo shouted, drawing his attention away from the silhouettes dancing among the flames.

Draco turned to face him. It was evident from his stance and furrowed brows that he had likely been trying to get Draco's attention several times before this last one stuck.

"Hm?" He asked with a sidelong glance, unwilling to fully break his gaze away from the party.

Theo sighed, recognizing that he'd lost his prince to his usual vice. "What is it that they're doing this time?"

He narrowed his gaze and pondered, "I don't know. It seems to be… a celebration… of sorts."

It occurred to him, that they could have been celebrating the end of the war as well. They _were_ involved in it as well. He supposed the destruction of a dark roguish wizard could cause such a spectacular event.

Theo sat beside him and dangled his feet off the edge, just as Draco did. "There's got to be more going on up there than that." He playfully pushed Draco's head to the side. "Come on. Spill."

Draco sighed. He looked at Theo, _really looked_ at Theo and was suddenly so overcome with gratuity for his best friend – for his safe space – that he was unable to stop the word vomit coming out of his mouth.

"It's my father. He constantly reminds me – _us_ – that the muggles are devious and cruel and in no way to be trusted. It's just. . ." He raked a hand through his hair, "There has to be something wrong with me. I just don't see how a world that has such wonderful people," he gestured to the crowd in the distance, "could be bad."

Theo blinked, processing.

"Have you ever actually _met_ any of those people? Or even seen one up close?" He ventured.

"Well, no - "

"That settles it, then." Theo said matter-of-factly.

"Settles what, exactly? Are you proposing I rectify that statement by, I don't know. . ." Draco threw his hands up, guffawed. "That I meet one of these people?"

Theo choked, "_What?_ No! Are you _mad_?"

But the seed had already been planted.

"Wait," Draco snapped his head towards the crowd in the distance in realization. "That's it! I'll figure out some way to meet one of them and then I'll _know _and - "

"No." Theo interjected. "No. Absolutely not!"

"Well, Theodore, now you're starting to sound just like Blaise."

"_Theo_," He corrected under his breath, then protested louder, "I am not!"

"The boundary charm can't be _that_ difficult to get through." Draco thought aloud. "I mean, if we're being honest, getting back in is easy, it's getting _out_ that's the tricky part. Hm, what could we - "

"I am _not_ getting involved in this, Draco! Your father would eat me _alive._ MY FATHER WOULD EAT ME ALIVE. NO, NO. THERE'S ABSOLUTELY - "

"I suppose a distraction?"

"- NO WAY -"

"You're right, too obvious. Besides, we would need an extremely powerful spell to _stay_ outside the boundary."

"- I AM GETTING INVOLVED!"

Draco held his tongue for a moment to spare a glance at the breathless and red-faced Theo beside him. He lingered for a moment on Theo's last words.

"Well, it's about time, Theodore." He rolled his eyes emphatically and stood up.

"THEO!"

"No, _I'm _Dr - "

"Don't." Theo warned. "Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence."

Draco held his lips together for a solid thirty seconds before adding, "Oh, _absolutely_ Blaise there. Spot on."

"GAH!" Theo groaned, then muttered some obscenity about princes under his breath as he rose to face Draco.

"What are you two going on about now, and where the _bloody _hell is this place?"

As if summoned, Blaise Zabini appeared behind the boulder, striding towards a fuming Theo and an amused Draco with not even the slightest impression that it was out of the ordinary.

"This…" Draco motioned with his hand to point out the crowd of muggles below when he noticed a streak of red dart away from the crowd.

He squinted into the darkness. Sure enough, it was a young girl in a deep, garnet gown – one he imagined was terribly ill-suited for running… or breathing, really – beelining from the safety of her palace grounds to the unwelcoming edge of the forest.

Without so much as a second glance, he darted around Blaise and Theo and sprinted in the direction of the edge of the forest she would soon be approaching. This was no place for a muggle girl.

Once he'd reached his edge of the boundary that aligned itself within three meters of the edge of the forest, he could see more clearly that she was not a child as he presumed, but a young woman probably (re: hopefully) his age.

He watched as she passed the edge of forest and ran deeper into unknown territory without hesitation. He was suddenly struck by her courage. Albeit, stupid courage. But still. It was admirable.

"Draco, what - " Blaise and Theo said in unison as they caught up to him.

He continued to move along the path of his boundary, watching the girl shake her pointed shoes loose and hoist her skirts up as she clamored over the enormous roots of the oaks and yews.

"No," Blaise added, finally eyeing the girl. "_No._" He whipped his head around to Theo, "Tell me he's joking. This is a joke, right? We're all imagining things? That's what this forest can do to you Draco,"

"I wouldn't argue, I just. . ." Theo trailed off and shook his head vehemently as he trailed behind Draco at the boundary's edge.

There was a muffled screech and then a gasp from the woman.

Draco's eyes flitted frantically to where her wide, brown eyes were fixated. There appeared to be a rotund, fluffy orange cat pawing – and then biting repeatedly, much to everyone's distaste – at a mangy, grey rat. He grimaced at the horrific, ugly scene. His gaze then fell to the woman.

Her hands clamped over her mouth and, like the sharp intake she'd just given, let out an equally sharp, but shakier, exhale. She gingerly reached out, looking as if she was going to reach for the feline. Draco wanted to advise her against such a thing, but it would be useless because she couldn't hear or see him through the illusion charm. When she did reach out for the cat, though, it sprinted off, back towards the palace with the rat hanging from its mouth.

Her shoulders visibly relaxed as she plopped to the ground with the skirts of her elegant ball gown enclosing her legs beneath what Draco could only presume to be expensive fabrics. No other fabrics would look as radiant or as well-crafted as the ones she so carelessly covered in mud.

His grey eyes were unable to look away from the defeated frown that formed on her soft features. The way her lips filled and pouted, then parted as she sighed in discontent. The way her hair was wild and free, enveloping her face. The way her delicate, _ringless_, fingers swiped away at a loose curl that dared to get caught in her long lashes.

Her neck craned as she peered up towards the sky, though it was obscured by the thick trees. She then bent her head down to inspect the amount of mud that covered her skirts and her bare skin.

"Minerva's going to _murder_ me." She mused.

She fell back and lay among the forest floor, her curls sprawled out in a halo around her head. Draco noticed several streaks of light reflecting off from deep within her mahogany hair; he wasn't able to clearly see what was causing it, until she tossed to the side, facing towards him.

A tiny, delicately gold tiara gleaned from atop her head.

A princess.

He felt his pulse quicken as she faced him and wondered if the illusion charm truly worked the way he'd been told it did. Obscuring their magical world from all those who weren't part of it. He imagined she saw an abundance of oaks staring back at her instead of a bewildered blonde prince.

"I don't believe it," she said.

He felt his throat dry and attempted not to panic more than he already had been. There was no way she could see through the charm. . . right?

But then she looked away, towards something off in the distance.

"It's preposterous that I should have to wed in order to move on with my coronation. Men don't have to. I've been preparing for this my whole life! And now I'm just supposed to hand my kingdom over to some," she stuttered, "some _power-hungry Lord?_"

_Coronation… _Draco internally registered... _so, she already _was_ Queen._

She scoffed. "It's ridiculous."

"_Draco,_" Blaise hissed.

"Shh!" He whispered back, intent on listening to the muggle queen ramble.

"Bright young women should not be forced to dull their intelligence, their worth, their birthright because of a man. Because of some dumb, _ancient_ rule." She pouted and threw a hand over her eyes. "I want to marry for love. I want to spend my afternoons curled up in his lap in the library as we read to each other," – _I love reading, _Draco thought – "I need to have a real connection, to get to _know_ him before I agree to spend the rest of my life beside him," – _I want nothing more than to get to know you, you beautiful muggle_ – "and I absolutely have to trust him. How am I supposed to be able to do any of these things with these suitors by the end of the week? How am I supposed to decide who the next king will be based off of minor interactions? It's absurd."

A lump formed in his throat and he grudgingly swallowed it. _Days? She only had _days_ until she would be forced to wed?_

Draco understood the terrible position she was in as he was in quite a similar one of his own. Suddenly he felt dizzy as a series of imaginary instances of a life they could have together flashed behind his eyes.

There had to be something he could do.

_Anything_.

She would be married in a matter of days, and he wasn't entirely sure if he could live with himself if it isn't to him. If he didn't at least _try_.

Draco was so enraptured by her, by his imaginary future with this muggle queen, that he barely noticed the vines wrap around her mud-ridden ankles and the thorns dig into her porcelain skin.

Her screams were cut off as abruptly as they had begun when a vine ensnared itself around her neck.

He panicked. There was no time to think, only to react. He pulled his wand from his trousers and aimed it at the boundary; he let out a strain of disenchantment spells among other offensive charms that would help dissipate the boundary for a brief moment. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as her pale complexion grew blue with suffocation.

She was a muggle and there was absolutely nothing she could do. Nothing she could have knownto do.

This is why this forest was forbidden to muggles – aside from the obvious hidden magical kingdom – it was full of horrific magical creatures of which they stood no chance against.

He spun to face Blaise and Theo, pleading with his eyes; he was fully aware of what this implication could mean for the three of them, and yet begged them anyway.

"_Please,_" he croaked; his mouth dry.

Theo raised his wand, and Blaise followed. All three of them aimed at the boundary for what felt like incredibly too long but must have only been seconds. There was a flicker in the charm, a disappearance of the foggy haze that stood out so clearly to them as the boundary, for an instant.

Only an instant.

Draco dove for it.

He felt the pull, the _weight_ of the charm bearing down on him, dragging him back towards their magical world. But that was not his place. No, his place was by _her_ side. Part of _her _world.

The boundary released him with a terrific thud, and he plummeted, ungracefully, to the sodden earth.

He reached for his wand and hastily drew a _reducto_ at the vines. He repeated the charm while occasionally tossing in a _diffindo_. At the disappearance of the vines, he rushed beside her and surveyed her injuries. He tried to count the puncture marks, cuts and scrapes, but it was impossible with the way his head spun.

Being outside of the boundary was beginning to affect him.

He had very little time to fix this.

To help her.

To be with her.

He shoved that feeling deep down and waved an _episkey_ over her until the gashing wounds dissipated into thin, red marks. With what energy he had left to summon he picked her up – she was surprisingly light in his arms – and carried her the hundred meters to the edge of the forest.

He placed her gently on the soft grass and tucked a curl behind her ear, caressing the side of her cheek as he did. He saw her chest rise; her eyes flutter and stir at his touch. He longed to stay there beside her forever, but he could feel his own health diminishing the longer he remained outside of the boundary.

"What would I give to live where you are?" He asked softly, his lips turning up into a sad smile.

"What would I pay to stay here beside you?"

Her fingertips twitched at her side, finding his other hand. All of the air escaped his lungs.

"What would I do to see you smiling at me?"

This time, her lips twitched into a wayward smile.

_Where would we laugh? Where would we dance? If I could risk it all for just once chance… for just you and me. And I could be… part of your world._

Her breathing hitched for a moment, causing a deep aching in his chest. He softly murmured a _confundo_ and then rose with great reluctance to shoot several red flares from the tip of his wand, alerting the other muggles of the disturbance, and ultimately her presence.

He limped towards the edge of the forest in time for the first muggles to arrive without having seen him.

A large brute picked her up, swaddling her in his arms as two other young girls bantered and worried in his wake.

His thoughts swarmed with images of their future, of which he could only dream. A chill ran up the back of his spine as he watched her head bob with the loose, wild curls – the ones he longed to entangle his fingers through and hold onto – bounce with every step the man took back up the hill. He didn't know when, nor _how_, but he knew, in that very instant, he would sacrifice nearly anything to spend the rest of his days beside her.

_Watch and you'll see… _

His knees gave out beneath him as she disappeared from view; he crawled the three meters to the nearest boundary line, thankful to see Theo and Blaise waiting beyond its hazy walls.

_Someday I'll be… _

He inhaled sharply, feeling the blood rush back to his brain as he collapsed at his friends' feet with nothing but her warm, smooth skin filling his thoughts.

_Part of your world… _

_. . ._

_19 September 1455_

_11:56 pm_

"Ah, Nagini,"

The responsive hiss of the twelve-foot green snake alerted its owner of the most recent news.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised." The raspy voice responded, nodded to the snake. "Wormtail was never the brightest of my followers, was he? Loyal, I'll give him that. Unfortunately look where that got him."

Another hiss; this one much longer and softer. Thoughtful. Speculating.

"Hmm, I'm still not sure that's the best way to go about this hitch in our plans. But, very well, my pet. I trust you."

Nagini hissed her understanding and slithered back into the forest.

. . .

**A/N - **Welcome to my newest WIP! As always, I am excited to start a new journey with you. Please note that this story will regularly be updated on Sunday's so you can expect the next chapter on Sept. 1! Thank you xx


	2. The Prey

_. . ._

_**Chapter 2 – The Prey**_

_. . ._

_20 September 1455_

_12:34 pm_

Books had a scent; they had a very distinct scent which Hermione was very fond of.

As she pulled a copy of one of her favorite books from its place on the shelf and flipped through its pages, the overwhelming smell of book wafted into her senses. She let out a shallow sigh of relief at the instantaneous calm the scent brought her.

It reminded her of the many afternoons she'd spent in her vast library, curled up with a book in her hands and Crookshanks on her lap.

As it was, the smug feline was curled up himself on a decorative pillow under the warm light that cast in from the open window. She strode across the room, her heels clacking loudly against the wooden floor, and perched on a cushion beside him. He purred in response to her light caress down his spine.

Hermione kicked off her heels and folded her legs beneath her skirts before reopening the book. She delighted in the simple victory of escaping her duties of escorting the suitors around the palace after breakfast.

Last night had been quite eventful, and although some of her memory was fuzzy, she was sure she'd seen some things that couldn't have possibly happened. Perhaps, she'd had more to wine than she recalled.

"_Drive back these treacherous liars who use nothing but tricks and honeyed words to steal from you that which you should keep safe above all else,"_

Fitting.

Of course, de Pazan had been referring to a woman's chastity and good name… but still. It reminded Hermione of her own dire situation. To let the suitors waltz in and claim to love her with their verses in order to secure her throne and rule over her kingdom given what little time they had spent actually getting to know her was far too applicable. To her knowledge, not one of the two she'd spoken to so far had asked for her opinions on a topic of discussion. If that were to be any indication of what her future – what her kingdom's future – would be in their hands, then she didn't regret hiding away in her library.

"Your Majesty,"

Her head snapped up to see Minerva's beady eyes narrowed. She hadn't used her name, either, which meant that Hermione was most definitely in trouble.

"Minerva," she greeted. The woman did not curtsy at her entrance, but nor did Hermione. They were far too familiar to adhere to such norms.

Her advisor crossed the room to sit on the cushion adjacent to her own. Crookshanks – with what slight agreeable mood he had previously been in now gone – leapt from his position to scurry across the room and down the hallway.

"Hermione," she continued, patted down her skirts as if there existed dust on them, "You know how relieved I am that you're feeling better," – she had woken up in the infirmary with some minor cuts and had apparently been found by the woods, but she didn't recall much of anything at the time so they'd let her go to breakfast with her ladies – "but that is no excuse for your behavior now." Her gaze flickered to the book. "You must spend time with these suitors. One will be the future king and I need you to be entirely certain of your choice."

"What if I agree to none of them? What if none of them are suitable choices?"

Minerva sighed, "This isn't one of your fairytale books, my dear, a charming prince isn't going to just fall out of the sky and save the day."

"But - "

"This is not up for discussion. I'm afraid that rules are rules."

Hermione frowned, "Not interrupting is one of those rules, too, isn't it?" She raised her brow.

Minerva pursed her lips. "Yes. You're quite right."

"So," Hermione shrugged emphatically and offered a wayward grin, "Perhaps I'm not wrong about Prince Charming, either?"

The creases around Minerva's lips deepened slightly as her eyes narrowed, but not in a disapproving way. If Hermione was not mistaken – and she wasn't – Minerva was hiding a laugh.

"I suppose not, my dear."

"Minerva?" Hermione bit her lip.

"Do not bite your lip." She scolded, "But go on."

"Right," She quickly amended her anxious habit and took a shaky breath, "Do you think magic still exists?"

The woman stilled. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Well," She closed her book and sat straighter, "I sort of… lied. Earlier."

The shrewd narrowing of her eyes returned as well as the thinly pursed lips which warned Hermione to tread very carefully.

"In the infirmary. I do recall something from last night," – a raised eyebrow – "it's nothing truly important. I still have no recollection of what happened or how I ended up where I did but, I do remember this man."

"A man?" She looked murderous.

"More like an angel, I suppose. He was… glowing? I'm not entirely sure, but he had the most _handsome_ voice."

"Hm," Minerva nodded slowly, "hence the magic question." Hermione nodded. "Well unfortunately, my dear, I don't believe magic exists anymore. I haven't seen it since your…" Her voice trailed off, but she quickly righted herself into a standing position and motioned to Hermione to follow. "Well, you know. Anyway, let's take a closer look at the men that _are_ currently available."

"Until Prince Charming arrives, right?"

A stifled laugh hidden in a cough.

"Right."

Hermione slipped her shoes back on and linked her arm with Minerva's, letting the woman lead her away from her favorite place and into one of the drawing rooms where the men would likely be waiting.

The suitor with the accent was first to approach her. He told her how worried he was for her last night and how thankful he was that he was able to lift her and carry her all the way to the infirmary. She wondered if he thought this admission was going to charm her. She mentally added _narcissistic_ to his list; it was her attempt at determining which of her suitors would be the lesser evil on the throne based on their vices.

The two strode around the drawing room, him comically towering over her, when the suitor with the messy hair – the one with the bewitching jewel-toned eyes – cut in and asked for her time. She obliged, bidding Lord Krum adieu.

"Lord Potter," She greeted, following him outside the room and under an open bridge.

"As I said before, call me Harry." He leaned against the stone barrier railing that looked over the grounds below and the lake not far in the distance. They stood in the center of one of the elevated walkways that led from one higher level of the palace to another.

She positioned herself in the space beside him, resting her hands on the barrier.

"Have you decided which of us is the most tolerable, yet?"

Hermione was taken aback by his bluntness and took a moment to recollect herself. "That's bold of you to presume."

He tilted his head, giving her a devilish grin. "Yes, and no. I admit, I may have been a bit roguish with my wording, but it's how I was raised. That doesn't negate the fact that I've seen you mentally calculating each suitor's worth to you as you hold a conversation with them."

She desperately tried not to physically appear on edge. "Roguish? Your mannerisms _are_ unexpected for a Lord. I had been wondering where you'd learned them from."

"My hideous family," he grimaced. "They barely have any manners."

Her eyes widened in horror. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"They're horrible people. Well, my extended family, that is."

"They're not nobility, I presume?"

A scoff, "No, but that's not what makes them so horrible." He sighed. "My parents were not noble either. They died when I was very young, a tragic accident." He didn't explain anymore, but Hermione could hardly blame him.

_A royal should never apol –_

"I'm sorry," she said, resting her hand lightly atop his before pulling it away, sheepishly aware of how forward that had been. She cleared her throat, "I lost my parents too." – he knew that, it was why the suitors were gathered around her birthday and upcoming coronation seeing as her regent was no longer necessary – "Influenza."

She didn't offer any additional information. He didn't press her for any. Both were relieved.

The frown lines that had taken over his face washed away and were replaced by his carefree grin once again as he glanced at her.

"You still didn't answer my question."

She let the tension in her shoulders fall, happy to have returned to flirtatious banter.

"What was the question, again?"

"Which of us is the least tolerable? Who do you believe will be your king consort?" He asked.

She paused, "Wouldn't you like to know? Worried it will not be you?"

He thought it over, then shrugged. "Not really."

"That's bold."

"I don't want your throne."

"Then why - "

"Why come?" She nodded so, he continued. "I needed to get away from my family. I found a letter that was addressed from my parents to my godfather. The letter proved my title and even included an estate that had been left in my name, a gift from my godfather. He was best friends with my parents, and I suppose he felt he owed it to them to give me my best chance at life. Supposedly my godfather is still very much alive, at least that's what the staff informed me when I showed up to the estate. There's so much that I feel like I still don't know about myself and while I'm grateful for the estate, it could use some improvement so, I don't plan to leave Grimmauld any time soon. It would be entirely inconvenient for me."

She pondered, wishing his excuse hadn't been so reasonable. It wasn't as if she could add _thoughtful_ to his list.

"That's fair, I suppose. I can't blame you for that."

"Besides," he said. His gaze lifted to the gardens below where Hermione witnessed Pansy pointing fingers at the gardeners and other help, most likely instructing them where to arrange the flowers and seating for that night's events. "I want to marry for love."

He suddenly whipped his attention back to her, "I didn't mean to be offensive, Your Highness. Truly, you are amiable and I've enjoyed our time - "

"Hermione," She cut in, allowing him to address her less formally. "There's no need to apologize, Harry. I know how you feel, and I couldn't agree more." She paused. "Though, you do realize Lady Parkinson is not exactly the warmest woman? She may take some getting used to."

His green eyes flickered to a bickering Pansy before landing on hers again, "Her? Her name is Lady Parkinson?"

"Yes," Hermione blinked several times. "Haven't you met her? You were conveniently staring at her when you proclaimed to want to love your future wife."

"Ah, yes, well," He ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I did try to ask her to dance with me last night, but she refused."

Hermione wanted to console him and assure him it was just Pansy's way of doing things, that he should not be personally offended – a lie, knowing Pansy, but Hermione also knew the woman had her reasons, however obtuse – but stopped herself when she noticed a smile forming on his lips. He wasn't upset at the rejection at all. Perhaps he _was_ meant for Pansy.

"I can help with that," She said, giving him a soft smile.

He grinned, "Well, in that case, it's only fair that I help you as well, Hermione. Let's see if we can find you a suitable husband, shall we?"

She took his proffered arm and turned to walk back into the drawing room with him.

"We shall," she promised.

_. . ._

_21 September 1455_

_11:17 am_

"Come on," Draco said, tugging the white linens off of his fever-ridden body.

He was in desperate need of a bath and a change of clothes.

"Where are you off to now?" Theo groaned, trailing behind him.

Draco cast a quick spell to ensure that the hallway on the other side of the door was clear before slipping out of the infirmary. He traipsed towards Theo's room, knowing that the Lestrange brothers were likely stationed outside his own door ready to alert his father should Draco decide to show up. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be out of the infirmary yet, and is Father heard that he was, he was sure to be summoned for a lecture.

He rummaged through Theo's closet for clean shirt and trousers then set them beside the marble tub before climbing in and quickly washing himself off. The sloshing of the water was beginning to make his head spin, but he ignored it and hurried to get out of the cold water.

"Draco," Theo said from the other side of the wall.

"Theo," He called back.

"What exactly is your plan here, mate?"

Draco stepped out in the new clothes and gestured for Theo to follow him out of the window and down below into the gardens of the Manor. There was a hole in the hedges that would lead them to an often-deserted portion of the lands surrounding the Manor. Perhaps, they could find some peace away from all of the noise surrounding his absence at last night's commencement of the tournament.

"You really plan on avoiding everybody all day?"

"Yes." He replied matter-of-factly.

Theo shrugged, "All right. Count me in." He stuffed two vials into his coat pockets and jumped out of the window behind Draco.

He held them up triumphantly with a wicked grin plastered across his face. "We might as well make the most of the afternoon and have some fun if we're going to get in trouble anyway, right?"

"Right." Draco laughed.

He grabbed one of the vials from Theo's hand and sent its contents down his throat, then tossed it aside and flicked his wand toward the miniscule hole in the shrubbery, causing it to grow big enough to allow them to slip through it.

"You going to tell me about what happened the other night?"

"I suppose if I don't, you'll probably annoy me with some horrendous haiku until I do."

"A truer statement could not have been said, Your Highness."

Draco sighed. "I guess I don't really have a choice then do I?"

Theo tussled Draco's hair out of its ordinarily perfect place before he took a swig of the burning liquid.

"Nope!"

_. . ._

_21 September 1455_

_6:55 pm_

The scent of cinnamon and apples enveloped the room in a sweet, festive haze. The long, heavy wooden tables that stretched across the open courtyard were filled with plentiful autumn delicacies. Even the littering of burnt orange and rustic brown leaves contributed to the ambiance of the display, though Pansy had repeatedly pointed them out and ordered them to be swept aside so that the guests who currently milled around the courtyard would not make such a ruckus in trampling over them throughout the night.

She sighed in a moment of relief as the setting took away the breaths of the guests that filed out of the palace and into the courtyard of the gardens.

They marveled at the mounds of food, the abundance of cornucopia, and the endless supply of aged wine to satisfy their needs.

Amidst the crowd, Pansy singled out the fair blonde doting on the iconic head of unruly curls and headed in their direction. She sidled up next to her best friends and noted the tremor in the young royal's fingertips.

"You'll be fine," Daphne assured her, straightening the petite golden crown atop Hermione's head. "You've given plenty of speeches before."

"Yes," She agreed. "But not as Queen, and definitely not in front of potential king consorts."

"Please," Pansy scoffed, careful to keep her voice low enough that only they could hear her. Hermione might privately indulge in her sharp tongue, but that didn't mean it was socially acceptable. "These fools? One can barely speak proper English and the others can't possibly be as well versed as you."

She glanced over to where the four suitors stood nearby and caught a glimpse of emerald green before pointedly snapping her attention back to Hermione.

"Right," Hermione nodded, straightening her posture, "I can do this."

"Precisely." Daphne cooed.

"Do hurry up, though." She added, then placed a hand on the small of Hermione's back and guided her towards the step she was scheduled to speak from. "We don't have all day. The sun will be going down in a few hours and I plan on being happily cooped up in the palace by then. Lest the bugs decide to eat me alive."

Hermione offered her a wayward smile before placing her royal mask on and assuming her role.

"My guests," Hermione started. At once, all eyes turned their attention to her – and much to Pansy's surprise, Hermione didn't reflexively employ one of her nervous habits – "Welcome to the Palace of Hogwarts. I want to personally thank you for spending not only my birthday with me, but also the Harvest Festival." She gestured to the aesthetically pleasing array of autumn goods.

"It is my pleasure," she continued, her voice gaining more confidence as she spoke. "To host you for this year's festival. I believe the autumn equinox is a time of prosperity and growth. It is a time when many reap the riches of a successful summer, and I believe it is vital that those riches be shared among the commonwealth. Autumn is the time of generosity and of fertility. On behalf of the kingdom, I implore that you take part in the giving of this festival and help me to create beautiful cornucopias that will be given out to those less fortunate than we, in the kingdom come tomorrow."

With a curt nod, Hermione descended from the step and joined Pansy and Daphne on the floor of the courtyard. She kept a waning smile plastered on her face as she expressed her gratitude that the speech was over with.

It was custom to partner up in the making of the plentiful cornucopia and so, when not even a minute later, Lord Corner approached Hermione with the request of accompanying him with his cornucopia, she could do little to refute.

Pansy and Daphne waved her away and settled into the crowd to find their own partners; it would not be suitable, of course, to work with each other. Minerva would wholly disapprove, and besides, Pansy was not interested in starting rumours of either of them partaking in a sin involving more than simple friendship.

Notably, it would be a great opportunity for both of them to mingle with the available Lords of the kingdom in hopes of securing their own husband this week. Many desirable men and families had arrived along with the suitors in anticipation of the engagement and wedding announcement to come at the end of the week. Pansy had her eye on a fair-haired son of a Duke when Daphne linked her arm in hers and jerked her slightly backwards, bringing her back to reality.

"Miss Greengrass," came a low voice from behind them.

It was the son of the head of the Queen's guard. Not the most outstanding match for Daphne – she was far too beautiful to settle for less than a titled husband, and far too wealthy as well – but certainly not the worst. Sir. Seamus Finnigan was, after all, quite handsome. She could certainly have more unpleasant company.

Daphne squeezed her hand briefly before allowing Seamus to lead her away, toward a table on the far side of the courtyard.

"And then there was one," a familiar voice taunted.

She carefully turned so as not to physically alert him of her surprise and met the emerald eyes that had haunted her for the past twenty-four hours. She saw them every time she closed her eyes. It was truly maddening the effect he had on her.

"Lord Potter," She offered a polite curtsy. Ever the Lady, of course.

"Care to lend your pristine eye to my cornucopia?"

"You know better than I do that I can't possibly entertain you, Lord Potter."

"Call me Harry." He said with a wicked grin.

She fought the blush that crept up on her cheeks. "I will do no such thing."

"Why ever not?"

"You know why." She protested.

Entertaining the potential suitors of the future queen was highly inappropriate. Even if they were looking at her like _that_. Her stomach tossed and turned at their proximity.

He shrugged. "Hermione's busy."

She frowned at his casual reference to her friend. It was incredibly impolite. Though, he wasn't wrong. A quick glance to her left and she could clearly see Hermione selecting a ripened apple and a squash to place in the cornucopia Lord Corner held.

"Come on, Lady Parkinson. Please don't make me ask again."

She sighed, defeated. "Very well."

Perhaps it would get him to leave her alone, she mused, internally. It was hard enough having to keep her thoughts to herself, and to avoid him during the day without his constant appearances at her side.

"You shouldn't be talking to me," She said after pointing to the larger of the two corns he held out for her inspection. "Aren't you concerned that the Queen will choose a different suitor if you spend all evening entertaining me?"

"I'm not concerned," He replied matter-of-factly. "I hope that Hermione chooses another suitor."

"Would you please stop calling her by her Christian name so casually? And, why would you say that?"

He reached for an apple. "We're friends. We've agreed to use each other's given names. As for her hand, well," He placed the fruit into their cornucopia and held out cinnamon sticks for her to smell. "I don't want her throne. I've told her this. I'm much too busy with my own tasks, and besides, I'm not entirely interested in moving up in rank. I've barely adjusted to Lord as it is."

Pansy let the scent overwhelm her senses before prodding for more information.

"Why is that?"

"What?"

"Your Lordship." She clarified. "Why is it that you've barely adjusted? Weren't you born into nobility?"

His nimble fingers made quick work of the arrangement, though he gladly stepped aside when she itched to fix it. She noticed – it was impossible not to – that he lingered close by and peered over her shoulder at her reorganization of seasonal fruits and vegetables.

She could smell the pine that was so characteristically him; it was the same scent that alerted her of his presence the night before when he'd asked her to dance with him. She'd refused, of course, out of polite necessity to Hermione.

Pansy stepped back, but ended up against his chest; his hands rested lightly on the small of her waist and she felt herself inhale a sharp breath, intimately aware of how intoxicating his touch was, and how strong he felt as she leaned into him for the briefest of moments.

With a shake of her head and cough to clear her dry throat, she backed away from him and brushed her perfectly smooth skirts. The deep violet beamed in the waning sun to give an iridescent glow on her pale skin, which she knew did wonders to highlight her raven hair and dark eyes. Pansy knew very well how to enhance her features, despite Daphne being the proclaimed voice of fashion when it came to Hermione's appearance.

Lord Potter – _Harry_ – continued with their conversation as if nothing had happened. As if they hadn't been pressed up against each other in a broad view of the crowd that perused the courtyard.

"I was not technically born into nobility, but I am noble now, yes." He shot her a pointed glance. "As are you."

"Yes, but you aren't nearly as refined or educated in the matter as I am." She teased.

He laughed, and she felt a smile turn at the edges of her rosy lips.

"No, I'm definitely not. The Dursley's are the ones who raised me, and let's just say Vernon Dursley is not the most elegant mannered man."

"I've never heard of a Lord Vernon Dursley." Pansy commented.

(Pansy knew the names of _all_ the noble families in the country, in fact, she knew much more than just their names. Anyone of importance was under her - or rather her spies - watchful eyes and ears.)

"No, you wouldn't have." Harry replied. "The Dursley's aren't nobility."

"You just said they're your family." She pointed out. "How is it that you're noble and they aren't? Why isn't your last name Dursley either, why Potter?"

"You ask a lot of questions." Harry said with an amused grin.

Pansy's lips pulled into a tight line and she tried to refrain from pestering him any further. As it was, she wasn't behaving very ladylike at all. It seemed that Harry had that sort of effect on her; he made her forget herself with how comfortable he was in his own skin.

"Petunia Dursley is my aunt," He clarified after a moment of silence between them. "My mother's sister. It's a long story, but let's just say that I didn't know I was nobility until roughly a month ago."

"You're very forthcoming with information." She said, moving to tie a ribbon around their finished masterpiece.

"Quite unlike you, Lady Parkinson." He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Pansy."

"Hm?"

She sighed and gestured for him to pick up the hefty gift.

"Pansy," She repeated. "That's my given name."

"Pansy," He said, tasting the name on his tongue. "Like the French _pensie_, meaning thought or remembrance."

She lifted her flowing gown and followed beside him as he carried the cornucopia they'd created over to the table where all of the other finished displays sat, awaiting their dispersal in the village the next day.

"Most people think of the flower." She pointed out to him.

His eyes flickered to hers and offered her a playful smile.

"Most people are boring. I'm not like most people." He supplied.

_No, _she thought, _you most definitely are not_.

Pansy suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline course through her. Harry was unlike any other man she'd ever encountered, and it has finally occurred to her as to _why_ she had that feeling. He was charismatic and enticing, of course, but it was his demeanor that held her attention. The way he so bluntly flirted with her, displayed his emotions across his face, and didn't care what a single person in the room had to say about him.

It was quite literally the opposite of what she'd been taught, and it stirred a rush of excitement from deep within her. She was much more used to the men who danced around their true intentions with the guise of politeness. His honesty and openness were baffling.

It constantly took her by surprise and kept her guessing as to what he could possibly say to her next. What he could possibly do. What he could possibly _want_.

"Well, _Pansy_," He said with daredevil smirk, "Thank you for spending your valuable time with me despite my abhorrent manners,"

She meant to address the slight, but then realized that he was toying with her.

"Your name is quite fitting," He continued. "I imagine I'll be up half the night remembering how the telltale scowl of your disapproval embellishes your lips."

He offered her a bow; his gleaming eyes lingered on hers before he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

It was only when she'd lost sight of his messy black hair that she felt the breath she'd been holding onto release from her mouth. She clutched a hand to her torso, suddenly feeling the restraint of the bodice beneath to be too much for her.

"What was that?" Daphne said, materializing beside her with a presumptuous grin.

"Nothing," Pansy quickly lied.

Not for the first time – and likely not for the last time either – Pansy fought the heat that rose to her cheeks and the soft smile that dared turn her lips.

"Where's Hermione, how is she doing?" She continued, ignoring Daphne's narrowed gaze.

She turned her attention, and herself, away from the knowing look Daphne fixed on her and angled herself toward the unruly head of mahogany curls that so clearly stood out from among the crowd with a mental note to do more research on the Potter family and their history.

_. . ._

_21 September 1455_

_5:21 pm_

"Draco!" Blaise called.

Blaise and Theo had helped heal Draco the night before and ushered him to the infirmary against his will. It was evident that whatever damage the boundary had caused to him could not easily be fixed by a healing charm. Theo had cleverly lied to the attending healer about the prince's whereabouts that had caused him to appear ill and fatigued. She's subsequently poured numerous potions and herbs in a flask and shoved the concoction down Draco's throat.

Much to Blaise's relief, the odorous purple liquid had brought much needed color back to Draco's face. Theo and Blaise had settled in beside Draco's cot for the night, but when Blaise awoke – unceremoniously no thanks to the healer's painful jabs and accusatory shouts – he noticed that both Theo and Draco had disappeared.

Fearing that they'd somehow run off and gotten into more trouble, he spent the entirety of the day searching the kingdom's grounds for them. He'd just about given up on trying to locate them without His Majesty's help – because of course, Blaise wasn't going to be the one to tell _him_ his son was missing – he caught a glimpse of platinum hair.

He wiped at his perspired forehead with the back of his sleeve and jogged to catch up to the blonde prince walking briskly through the Manor. Blaise had been searching for Draco and Theo, who was trailing behind his friend at a fast pace, all day.

"We have to talk about this," Blaise added.

"No, we don't," Draco called back over his shoulders.

"Where are you _going_? Come on, just stop for a minute so we can talk about that mu - "

Draco hastily spun and shot Blaise a warning glance so much like his father's that Blaise swallowed the remainder of his sentiment without a second thought.

Theo shifted from foot to foot in between the two of them. "His Father's summoned him."

"WHAT?" Blaise shouted. When two women who had been walking in the hallway craned their necks in unison to stare at his outburst, Blaise offered an awkward wave of his hand, "Nothing to see here," his eyes met Draco's sullen glare, "The King summoned you?"

"Why must you always call him that?"

"Because it's true."

"Yes," Draco sighed, "But it's extremely irritating. He's just my father."

"Careful mate," Theo tsk-ed. "If His Royal Highness hears you, he might make you marry someone worse off than Loony."

Draco glared at him. He sighed and turned to keep walking towards the throne room.

"Draco!" Blaise called after him, hustling to keep pace with him and Theo.

"We both know why your father summoned you and we have to get our stories straight." He added.

Draco glanced sideways at him, his face contorted with panic and annoyance. "Shh!" He grabbed both Theo and Blaise by their collars and shoved them into the nearest room, casting a _muffliato_. "I know perfectly well why my father called for me. That's why I spent the entire day avoiding him."

"Which you did brilliantly, by the way." Theo said.

Blaise shot him a disapproving glare, but Theo only shrugged. "What, it's true? The whole 'spent the entire morning in the infirmary for vague and untrue reasons' and then 'frolic off for the remainder of the afternoon with no explanation'? I'd call it a win."

"Well, I'd call it luck."

"Will both of you be quiet?" Draco sighed. "We don't need to talk about this."

Blaise scoffed, "I think we certainly _do_ need to talk about this. What even _happened_ last night? And don't," – Draco promptly closed his mouth as Blaise pointed a finger at him – "tell me it was nothing. I know you two have always been very secretive and I know I'm not in on your code or included in your adventures, but don't lie to me."

Draco had to physically resist the instinct to glance at Theo.

"You're right. It wasn't nothing." He said.

"Oh boy, here we go again." Theo threw his hands in the hair and then plopped into a seat on the velvet armchair behind where they stood in the room. It was one of the extra drawing rooms.

Draco shot Theo a glare, but it didn't meet his eyes because he was too busy thieving pillows from the nearby seat to make his own more comfortable. He'd heard Draco retell this particular piece a thousand times just that morning and was in no mood to hear it again. He sank lower in the chair and tucked his head into his elbow.

"Wake me when you're done," he mumbled.

"Well," Draco said, eyeing Blaise and shifting from foot to foot.

Blaise crossed his arms, "Go on."

"It wasn't nothing."

"Yes, I've got that much, funnily enough."

He sighed, pushing loose platinum strands back from his forehead. "The girl. I didn't know she'd be there. We were on top of the rock and I saw her sprint towards the woods and I," he paused, aware of what little sense he was probably making, "I don't know. I just ran. I figured she'd need my help."

"Right," Blaise drawled. "Because you're such a heroic prince that you're willing to help any damsel in distress?" Draco nodded. "Bollocks." Blaise continued, "This has absolutely everything to do with the fact that she's a muggle, not just some girl in distress – because I'm not sure if you're aware mate, but technically there's another damsel in distress, and you haven't given her more than two minutes of your time so I don't believe for one second that you've got some hero complex. I know there's something else. Something you aren't telling me."

"Mm," Draco pressed his lips tightly together, "that would be the muggle thing."

"The muggle thing?" Blaise repeated.

"The muggle thing." Theo chimed in without moving from his position.

Blaise arched a brow quizzically at his friend. Draco swallowed, unsure of how to explain himself. How exactly does one pronounce that he's learned to admire and yearn for any and every muggle-related thing that crossed his path over the years?

For every celebration, he went running to observe. For every lone gardener, he dared to wonder what odd contraption they would use to shape the hedges that day, and into what bizarre shape? For how many times did he cut himself off in conversation with another wizard when a reference to something he'd witnessed the muggles at the palace do was on the tip of his tongue? For how often did he find himself conversing with a beautiful young witch and wonder if she felt as vehemently against muggles as he believed the rest of the kingdom did?

He hadn't truly felt comfortable with anyone outside of Theo with this knowledge. This deep understanding of what he wanted most in his life: to experience their world.

Instead, he loudly exhaled and beckoned for Blaise and Theo to follow him out of the room.

"I can't be late to meet Father," he added as an explanation for their exit.

He noticed Blaise shake his head and turn to whisper to Theo, "Muggle thing?"

Theo waved a hand in response, "I'll explain it later."

As expected, his father was _not_ pleased. Though, luckily for Draco, his reasons were not for the same reasons as Blaise's had been.

"You missed the duel last night," King Lucius stated as Draco moved to stand before him.

He bowed his head in submission. "My apologies, Father."

"You've disappointed me Draco."

He winced. "I know, Father. It won't happen again."

"You better hope not." The glint in his grey eyes triggering unpleasant memories in Draco's mind. "You've disappointed our guest, too, my son. Lady Lovegood was found wandering aimlessly through the halls last night."

Draco frowned, his eyes flickered over to Blaise but noticed that he, too, seemed confused by this notion.

"I can assure you," he said, meeting Blaise's subtle nod, "She made it back to her chambers."

"Hm," Lucius drawled. "Perhaps she was telling the truth, then." He turned in his chair to face Narcissa, who had just entered the room from a back entrance and moved to sit beside her husband. "What do you say, my love, was the young Ravenclaw telling the truth?"

Narcissa let out a small hiccup of a cough.

"Hard to tell with all of her tall tales." She mused. "About what in particular?"

"The sleepwalking."

"Ah," Narcissa shrugged, waving one of her hands – adorned in multitudes of silver and diamonds and emeralds – dismissively, "It's highly likely. The girl wore her shoes when the handmaids found her wandering through the Manor in her nightgown and robes."

Draco's brows creased.

"What about the other thing she mentioned to us just now?" Lucius said.

"About Draco's aura?"

"That's the one," he turned to stare at his son. "She mentioned it was quite the contrasting color from last night's aura. Apparently much less _droopy, moody blues_ and much more _amused, alert orange hues_." Lucius paused. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

She must have spotted him earlier when he was ranting to Theo deep in the forest about what he was going to do about the muggle queen. How he was going to somehow see her again. Theo had been adamant about Draco not risking his life to see her, but he had also been surprisingly helpful in the logistics of planning an escape.

He felt his heart rate increase and fought the urge to swallow.

"Father, you can't be serious. Listening to her ridiculous rambles. There's hardly any truth in them."

"Ah," he nodded slowly, "but there are some truths, then?"

Draco opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. Nothing intelligent nor convincing was going to come out. No use in making it worse.

"Tell me, Draco," his voice lowered, daring his son to lie to him. "What. Happened."

"It was nothing, Father. I felt ill last night and was simply in a better mood today."

It would explain why he missed the tournament and why his supposed aura was brighter this afternoon compared to yesterday.

"Why?" Lucius pressed. "Why were you ill, what were you up to?" His grey eyes narrowed on Draco's own grey eyes. Neither daring to break contact and show their weakness.

"It wasn't his fault!" Theo shouted, stepping forward to stand on Draco's left.

Draco shot him a warning glance, but Theo shook his head subtly, clenching and unclenching his fist three times. Draco nodded his understanding, grateful.

"Right!" Blaise added, moving to stand to Draco's right. Lucius did not look amused _in the slightest_ to have been interrupted by his son's playmates, but before he could reprimand them, Blaise continued. "First, these two" – he jerked his thumb toward Draco and Theo – "left before dinner was over, right? So, I follow them out, of course. Then, there were loud pops. BOOM! BOOM! Ugh," – he shook his head manically, then let out a deep sigh – "then, we were all running and Draco was so fast and out of nowhere there was this royal muggle girl and - "

"Royal mu - ?" Lucius head snapped up. He stood and stomped his cane on the floor with a thunderous noise. "MUGGLE?"

Blaise shrunk back at the King's instantaneous reaction and offered an apologetic smile to Draco, who hadn't yet looked away from his father.

Narcissa inhaled a sharp gasp. "What did you do?"

Draco stilled. His eyes darted between his mother and father, watching two forms of furious erupt in their own unique ways. One loud and threatening while the other quiet and methodical.

"You went to the boundary, didn't you?" his father shouted. "DIDN'T YOU?"

He flicked his tongue over his dry lips, "Nothing… happened."

"How many times have we warned you, Draco, never to put yourself in danger. Never to go near one of those muggles, one of those _barbarians_."

"They're not barbarians," he muttered under his breath.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

Draco bit his lip.

Theo winced beside him. Blaise wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark hole and never resurface.

"Draco," Lucius spat, "I cannot have my only son, my only _heir_, prancing around the boundary. You could get hurt, and then what? Who is going to rule after me if you're gone?" Narcissa sniffled. "From now on, I don't want you leaving this Manor, do you hear me? I will not risk your life by letting you anywhere _near_ another muggle. They're _dangerous_."

"They're not dangerous," Draco let slip. He saw the horror in his father's face and quickly (re: stupidly) moved to amend his statement. "If you would just look _closer_ at them, you'll see what I've seen."

"What you've seen? Are you telling me you've gone to the boundary _more than once_?" His knuckles white against the grip of his cane. "Do you _sympathize_ them, Draco?"

"They're not like how you portray them in your stories, Father. They're kind, they - "

"Stories?" Lucius grimaced. "STORIES? That was _history_. That _happened_. Not even a century ago and here you are telling me they've _changed_? I won't have it. You will not be leaving this Manor until I'm certain you've come to your senses."

Lucius turned to sit on his throne and Narcissa lay a hesitant hand on his forearm. She remained stubbornly silent on the matter.

He and his mother were arguably closer than he and his father, though Draco imagined her willingness to protect him stopped where his father's temper began. He didn't blame her. He wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it if he could help it.

Draco understood this was a dismissal. There were to be no more discussions on the topic. He was supposed to go to his room and never leave. He was supposed to marry the pretty, airy witch and live a long, miserable life.

"When you're king," his father added, his voice not dripping with its usual venomous tone, "You'll understand. You'll see there are sacrifices to be made; boundaries to be enforced."

"When I'm king there won't _be_ any boundaries." Draco muttered under his breath.

His father had heard him, though. He rose slowly and extended a finger towards the large double doors, "GET OUT." He spat; the venom returned.

The moment Draco stepped through the double oak doors; he broke off into a run to escape the Manor. Aware that Blaise and Theo were behind him – and wanting nothing more than to be alone with his anger – he ruled out heading towards the rock that overlooked the muggle palace or towards the large yew that he and Theo often climbed to privately converse, and instead sprinted towards the heart of the kingdom instead, towards the town. He knew it would be an easier bet to blend in among the crowds in an attempt to shake them from his tail. At the very least, he would be able to put some distance between them while they caught up to him.

He collapsed on the side of a shop, peering around the corner to see Blaise and Theo arguing in the middle of the square and frantically whipping their heads in every direction.

Sinking to the dirt floor, he let out a sigh of relief, which quickly turned into a muffled scream as he clasped his hand over his mouth at the sight of a four-meter snake. It slithered towards him, its body as wide as Draco's thigh, if not more so, and stopped in front of Draco to coil in on itself.

It bent its head down briefly, a greeting to Draco.

Had he seen that right, had the snake just _greeted_ him?

Its yellow eyes peered at him – much to his surprise, _knowingly_ – and cocked its head to the side, beckoning a question. Draco was unsure of what to do. At his immobility, the snake began wrapping itself around his legs. He panicked for a moment, wondering if he was going to suffer a similar fate of suffocation as the muggle queen had before he was able to rescue her, but just as he thought to pull out his wand in defense, the snake uncoiled itself and slithered towards the far edge of town. It stopped a few meters away, looking back at Draco and giving him another tilt of its head as if to say, _Well, aren't you coming?_

He scrambled to his feet, and against his better judgement, stumbled after the enormous snake as the trees began to rise around him with the edge of the town fading behind him.

Twigs snapped and loud exasperated breaths sounded from behind him after a minute of following the snake's winding path, and when Draco turned to see Blaise and Theo panting, he was not mad that they had finally caught up to him.

"What the hell are you doing?" Theo demanded, for once not in the know of Draco's whims or wishes.

"Following the snake," he pointed out.

"Snake?" Theo gasped. "What, where?"

"There," Draco gestured to the one a few meters ahead, leading them farther into the forest thick with fog this evening.

"Draco," Blaise said, his voice wavering. He swatted his friend's arm several times in a panic, "Are you aware that you're following Mr. Quirrell's snake?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Quirrell," he said in a whisper. "You know? The old batty wizard that lives on the boundary's edge."

"Oh," Theo's eyes widened in realization. "He's the one with the horrid stutter, isn't he? I've heard he's bonkers. An absolute lunatic, really, but I've heard from several witches in town – I won't name them, of course, because they were definitely not from a brothel – that he's actually quite handsome. I bet if he fixed that ole' stutter – and got laid – that he'd be much saner."

"Theodore," Blaise chided – "_Theo_," – "now is not the time for your irreverent opinions on the dating profile of every wizard and witch in the kingdom!"

"Hey," Theo added defensively, "just because I said lilac was decidedly _not_ a good look on you doesn't mean my opinions are _irreverent_."

Blaise groaned, "Seriously though, Draco, you can't follow this snake. It can only mean trouble."

"Haven't you heard, Blaise? Trouble is High Highness' middle name."

"Oh, _shut up_ Theo!"

"Both of you!" Draco finally snapped. He hushed them and continued weaving through the protruding roots of the enormous trees to trail behind the snake.

When they finally came upon a modest – and definitely not well-kept – house, they all stood perfectly still while the snake slithered up to its door. She paused to give Draco another quizzical look before shimmying its way through the entrance and leaving the wooden door ajar for them to follow her into the darkness.

The three of them exchanged glances.

"No," Blaise protested. "Absolutely not!"

Theo, however, arched a brow at Draco, who in turn crooked his lip upward. Both shrugged and started walking towards the house. Whatever awaited them, they'd face it together.

"Bloody hell," Blaise muttered under his breath as he reluctantly followed them into the darkness.

The inside of the house was sweltering with heat from a cauldron burning in the center of the room. There were vials upon vials littering the bookshelves that lined the walls of the house. The withering, aging wood creaked beneath their heavy steps as they made their way deeper into the house. The snake slithered across the room and up onto an upholstered, tattered armchair that faced a lit fireplace which added to the stifling heat causing the boys to perspire beneath their layers of clothing.

A figure stood from the chair; a brilliantly purple turban draped around the head of a tall man dressed in dark robes that obscured the rest of his body shape.

The man teetered away from the large snake, but after a quick jerking motion of his head meeting his shoulder and then spasming back into place, he reluctantly leaned towards the snake. It hissed slowly and purposefully towards the man, who winced and twitched as the its tongue flickered against his cheek.

"H-Hello," he greeted. Draco felt Theo nudge him subtly. "I'm s-so p-pleased to meet you, P-Prince Draco. Oh!" He painted a pained smile on his face, clasping his hands together excitedly. "I see y-you've brought f-friends with y-you. H-how delightful."

"You're Mr. Quirrell?" Draco drawled.

"Y-yes. My master and I are s-so excited t-to have you h-here, Your H-H-Highness." He winced; his head spasmed once again and his hand reflexively rose to his turban. "N-Nagini," his eyes darted toward the snake – who, much to Draco's surprise, appeared to wink – "She has t-t-told me that you will b-be of great v-value to our little p-p-project."

"The snake told him that?" Theo judged under his breath.

"Why would I want to get involved with your… project?" Draco asked. "I'm the Prince. I have duties," – many of which he ignored or outright avoided, but Quirrell didn't need to know that – ''So, what makes you think I have any time to spend on you?"

"M-My Master i-insists!" He sputtered. Draco could see that the poor man's stutter only grew more prominent when he became frustrated.

"Who even _is_ this Master you keep referring to?" Theo asked.

There was a low croaking whisper coming from somewhere in the room. Quirrell spasmed again. This time, when he reached for his turban, he actually took hold of it and began unraveling the thick, violet fabric from around his head. Once it was completely off, and his bald head exposed – "I thought you said he was handsome?" Blaise hissed. "I was _told_ he was!" Theo offered in defense, "Though to be fair, you've got to admit he's got dreamy eyes." – Quirrell placed the fabric on the armchair and slowly turned away from the boys, exposing the second face at the back of his head.

All three gasped. Blaise additionally muttered something unintelligible under his breath while Theo and Draco rapidly tapped their fingers against their thighs.

"Prince Draco," the face said, its voice like the scraping of nails against an iron surface, "I'm so pleased you could join us. Nagini has high hopes for you." The snake bent its head and slithered between the boys and Quirrell's body.

"Who are you?" Draco forced out of his dry throat.

"My name is Tom Riddle."

He recognized the name; he'd heard it before but couldn't quite place where it was from. His gaze darted to Blaise and Theo on either side of him, but both of their puzzled expressions did little to help.

"What is it that you want from me?" Draco asked. His grey eyes flickered over to where Nagini sat coiled in on herself and then back to the dark, hungry eyes of Tom Riddle.

"Nagini tells me you're quite fond of the muggles," he continued, ignoring Draco's question. "Yes, she was quite certain you liked them earlier in the week, but I asked her to find more concrete proof of your afflictions than stalking them from behind a boulder. Then, much to my surprise – and I don't surprise easy, young prince – she proved her intuition correct."

"I still don't understand - "

"You see, _Your Highness_," he went on, "I require something that was… stolen from me. It remains hidden in their palace."

"But how - "

"I'm going to need you to retrieve it for me. Find it and bring it back."

"Why - " Draco paused, collecting his thoughts. "How am I supposed to be able to do that? I can't exactly cross the boundary without dying. Any wizard who crosses that boundary will die if they're out there long enough. I can't help you. No one can help you."

"No, you're right. You can't. Not without my help anyway,"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You said it yourself, Prince Draco. Any wizard can't cross the boundary, therefore, the only way for you to get across the boundary is to become a muggle yourself."

"A mu - " He stepped back, letting out a whisper of shock, "Can you _do _that?"

"Oh, you foolish prince." He cackled. "I'm the most powerful wizard to ever exist," – Theo muttered to Blaise behind Draco's back, "Doesn't look like it." – "Of course, I can do that. It's a rather simple enchantment. Though, it does fade after a few days, so you'll have to be diligent in your search for the object."

"You're willing to make me into a muggle in order for me to retrieve an object of yours that was stolen and is hidden somewhere in the muggle palace?" Draco summed, aghast. "That's… mad. That's idiotic. Why would I ever do such a thing?"

Riddle didn't appear to be phased by his accusation. "Have you ever desired something so deeply that you find you would do most anything to have it?"

Draco's thoughts immediately betrayed him with images of his proposed future alongside the muggle queen. Suddenly, the idea of becoming a muggle for a few days seemed too good to be true. He would have a chance at seeing her again. Was that not exactly what he'd been planning that morning? Scheming for a way to touch her soft skin just _one_ more time.

He felt someone tap his wrist, then turned to meet Theo's dark gaze. "Draco," he warned, "don't."

Because of course, Theo knew. Theo knew exactly what dark thoughts had just been swarming around his mind, clouding his better judgement. Taunting him with the future – and escape – he so desperately longed for. For a way to be part of her world, even if only for a few days.

He looked up at the face protruding from the back of Quirrell's head.

"What's the catch?"

"As I mentioned before, the enchantment will only last for three days."

"No," Draco cut him off. "If I succeed in finding this object," – "The Philosopher's Stone." Riddle supplied. – "If I get this stone for you, what then? What's in it for me?"

"Draco, you can't be serious!" Blaise said.

"What is it that you desire, young prince? To be muggle, perhaps? Permanently."

"_Draco!_" Both Theo and Blaise hissed.

"If it is," Riddle continued. "This stone is quite powerful. It will help me restore my own body, and as you can imagine that's something I dearly require, so I would think it only fair to extend my gratitude to you for retrieving the stone and allowing me that freedom. I will grant you whatever it is that you desire most." His lips curled into a mean, cruel smile.

Draco felt a shiver run up his spine.

"If I become muggle… permanently… I won't see my friends or family ever again." Draco mused.

"I suppose that's true. But," Riddle's mischievous grin grew, "you'll have your sweet young queen, won't you?"

"How do you know about - "

"Oh," Riddle went on, ignoring Draco's outburst, "and there is one more thing. For this enchantment to work, I'm going to need something that belongs to you."

"What do you want? My family's jewels? Gold?"

"No, no, nothing of that sort. Something that _belongs_ to you. Your voice, for example." Riddle replied.

"My voice, what could you possibly - "

"No more time for questions, I'm afraid. I'm on a very tight schedule. So, what will it be?"

Draco gulped, meeting neither Theo nor Blaise's stares, and nodded his affirmation.

"Excellent," Riddle mused. "QUIRRELL," he snapped, forcing the man providing him with a body to possess to turn and face the boys. "Do it," Riddle's voice demanded, though now out of view.

Quirrell reached for his wand and walked over to Draco – Nagini had since wrapped herself around Theo and Blaise's feet, preventing them from interfering – and grabbed his forearm, facing his palm up.

He looked at the man before him and focused on the quiet words spilling from his mouth, "The M-M-Mark will warn y-you when your t-t-time is up. You h-have until the sun s-sets on the t-third day. If you f-f-fail to retrieve the s-stone, you will belong t-to the Master, forever. Do not get d-d-distracted." He paused, offering a sad smile, "This is g-going to h-hurt."

That would be an understatement.

The pain was blinding and crippling and, as much as Draco wanted to scream, he felt nothing come up.

_. . ._

_21 September 1455_

_7:45 pm_

Hermione was glad that at the completion of their cornucopia, Lord Corner – Michael, as he so frequently insisted that she call him – was called away. He had the most unfortunate habit – as did Lord Longbottom – of talking _at _her and not _with _her.

Luckily, Daphne and Pansy were quick to accompany her for a stroll around the festivities before another suitor could obtain her attention and bore her to death with tales of their success and courage.

"Hermione," Pansy greeted.

"So, any improvement in the men?" Daphne asked.

"Not really, except perhaps with Harry." She replied.

Pansy's face – usually carefully concealing any form of expression or obvious emotion – flickered with shock before returning to its usual stoic self.

"Lord Potter?" She asked, though her voice was uncharacteristically high.

Daphne shot her a meaningful glance, and while Hermione wanted to press the subject, she noted Minerva looming in her peripheral vision and knew based on her pursed lips that Hermione's immediate presence would be required elsewhere.

She gave a curt nod to her advisor.

"Yes, him." She directed at Pansy. "That reminds me, I have to talk to you about him later."

Pansy's face paled, but Hermione was already leaving her and Daphne behind to approach Minerva.

"Hermione."

"Yes?"

"It seems we have a rather pressing matter that requires your attention." Minerva stated. She gestured for Hermione to walk with her farther away from the palace gardens and its festivities. "It concerns the kingdom's well-being."

_Hence the privacy_, Hermione mused, internally.

"What is it?"

"It seems that there's a bit of a rebellion forming on the outskirts of the kingdom. They're calling themselves Grindelwald's Army."

Hermione furrowed her brows. "An army? How many are there?"

The absence of reverberated chatter from the crowd celebrating the Harvest Festival was prominent as they moved away from the palace grounds and toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"Barely enough to make a company."

"Where are they located?" She pressed.

Minerva clasped her hands together in front of her, "The eastern shore." She paused. "There's something else."

"What is it?"

Minerva's dark eyes flickered back to the palace before settling on Hermione with concern. "There were Durmstrang ships seen not even a kilometer away from their camp."

Hermione's head immediately snapped up; her gaze flickered back to the palace before resting on Minerva's unwavering eyes. "Durmstrang ships? You don't think Lord Krum has any knowledge of this so-called army, do you?"

Minerva didn't react. "It's unclear."

She huffed, "Well did they happen to announce their reason for rallying? What they're protesting?"

At this, Minerva's grey eyebrows arched. Hermione was used to this quizzical look; it often meant that she already knew the answer and that Minerva wasn't intending on supplying her with more than confirmation.

"The Crown?" She guessed with a heavy sigh. "They want my crown."

"Yes. It appears that they do."

Hermione couldn't help but let out a forced chuckle, "Doesn't everyone these days?"

She thought of her dear uncle's ravenous stare from across the table at lunch earlier that day and felt as if a dagger had punctured her lung.

"It would seem so." Minerva agreed. "The council would like your input on mobilization of our troops."

"I'll have to take a look at the maps before giving a formal opinion, but I'm sure we have squadrons to spare." She said.

"Very well," her advisor nodded – which meant that Hermione had done well in their conversation – and gestured up the hill to where the palace stood in front of the sunset. "We should head back to the festivities, then. I imagine your absence has been noted."

Hermione fought the groan at the base of her throat and was about to hike up her skirts to follow behind Minerva when she spotted a slender figure collapsed at the foliage that lined the border of the Forbidden Forest.

"What do you suppose..." Her voice trailed off as she squinted at the figure.

Ignoring Minerva's attempt to call her attention back toward the palace, Hermione lifted her skirts and proceeded to climb down the hill. When she reached the figure, she was able to more clearly see that it was a man – a young man likely not much older than herself – who was covered in dirt.

He lay on his back with his arms and legs outstretched and bent in an odd fashion, as if he had just been deposited roughly. She glanced around but saw no sign of where he may have come from or who he may have been with.

Hermione knelt beside the man and tilted her head to the side, taking in his ethereal features. He was unquestionably handsome; his blonde hair – it was uncharacteristically so translucent that when it caught the last remaining rays of light it shone more of a silvery white – and his lean figure were unlike anything she'd ever seen before.

"Hermione!" Minerva called, having finally caught up to her.

She stopped just behind Hermione and huffed at her proximity to the unknown man.

"My dear, step away from him, you have no idea who he is!" Minerva chided.

"No," She responded, "But he seems quite familiar."

She figured there was no possible way she could forget a face like his, and yet, in the back of her mind she had this nagging thought that she'd seen him somewhere before.

Hermione reached a hand out to brush the few strands that had fallen loose away from his sheen forehead; as she did, his eyes sprung open and he inhaled a long, sharp breath. His hand clutched tightly around her outstretched wrist with his grey, stormy eyes focused intently on her face.

However, as quickly as he had reacted, he fell back against the sodden earth with a soft thud and resumed his unconscious state.

It took a minute for her to calm her ragged breathing before she stood and met Minerva's stern look of disapproval.

"Don't," Minerva warned.

"We have to take him in," She countered.

"Hermione, dear, _please_."

Hermione shook her head, intent on getting her way this time. "No, Minerva, look at him." She gestured to the man at her feet. "He needs help! We can't just leave him here."

"He could be anyone, Hermione! He could be a spy for Grindelwald for all we know." Minerva protested.

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek. "Perhaps," She said. "If he is, then that's all the better. We can question him once he properly healed. But if he's not, then I can't just sit back and _leave him here_. He needs medical attention, to be bathed, clothed, fed…"

Minerva's lips pressed into a thin, condemning line.

"Fine." She conceded. "I'll go get Hagrid."

Hermione beamed; she plopped down beside the young man and watched as Minerva headed back toward the palace to get the help of their strongest man. He would certainly be able to lift this stranger and bring him to their infirmary.

_. . ._

**A/N - ** Thank you to those of you who submitted reviews and followed/favorited! Sincerely, I appreciate you. This chapter is for the first guest review: I am glad that you are cackling too because so am I hahaha; for aryan778 because you picked up on the underplot so quickly and we ALL want to know what voldy is up to; for guest (#3 ?) because yes they are both royals and that will definitely come into play! also how interesting that they come from different worlds? side note: I like they way you think hahah; for lexy0199 because ariel is my whole world so thank you for acknowledging that (the little mermaid was my whole childhood) :)

**PS - **Thank you so much for all the love on this story she comes from the heart and I cannot WAIT every week to share the newest chapter :)


	3. The Spark

. . .

_**Chapter 3 – The Spark**_

_. . ._

_22 September 1455_

_9:17 am_

"Your Majesty," one of the servants greeted as they placed a bowl of fruit and oats in front of her.

Hermione nodded her gratitude to the young girl and turned her attention back to Daphne and Pansy.

"Now, what did you say happened last night?" She pressed.

"Well," Daphne started. "It seems that Seamus may have set his cornucopia on fire - "

Pansy cut in, "It was while you were traipsing along after that filthy village boy."

Hermione flicked a blueberry at her before facing Daphne, "Go on."

"Right, well, somehow Seamus set his cornucopia on fire. Lord Potter stepped in to help distinguish it and both of them suffered some burns and blisters from the flames." Supplied Daphne as she selected a scone from a tray on the table.

"How did he manage to set the cornucopia on fire?" Hermione asked, baffled.

"God knows. That dastardly boy is a walking torch; no matter where he goes there seems to bring some form of pyro explosion with him." Pansy said. She tore apart a croissant and plopped a piece in her mouth.

"_Pans_," Daphne scolded between peals of laughter.

"So, all three boys are in the infirmary, then?"

"Including your handsome stranger?" Daphne replied. "Yes, it would seem so."

"We should pay them a visit after breakfast," Hermione continued. "To make sure they're all well."

"Hmm," Pansy narrowed her eyes. "And this would just be a wellness check, then? It wouldn't have anything to do with you sitting by the stranger's bed all of last evening rather than return to the festivities?"

Hermione patted the corners of her lips with her cloth, hiding her smile beneath its thick fabric.

"Of course," She replied sweetly. "Don't you plan on paying Harry a visit?"

"Harry - " Pansy sputtered. "Why would I do that?"

"Yeah, Pans, why don't you pay Harry a – OUCH." Daphne bit the bottom of her lip and narrowed her eyes at Pansy accusingly. Hermione wasn't able to see what happened but by the way Daphne would later stand with a slight limp, she would deduce that Lady Four-Names had kicked her in the shin.

"Nonsense. I have no reason to visit Lord Potter." She plopped another piece of her croissant in her mouth. "Why don't you accompany Hermione, Daph? I'm sure Seamus would _love_ a visit from you."

"I bet he would, and I didn't even _flirt_ with him last night, unlike y – OUCH – _Pans._" Daphne shot a glare at Pansy who was smirking at her from the other side of the table.

"Besides," She continued. "I can't go because Minerva demands I meet with her to go over all of our dress arrangements for tonight."

"Hmm." Hermione remarked. She placed her teacup down and turned to Pansy. "So, what's your official excuse then for not coming with me to the infirmary?"

"Official excuse?" Pansy rolled her eyes. "No such thing."

"Perfect," Hermione grinned mischievously. "So, you'll come with me then?"

Pansy scooted her chair back and plucked another croissant from the table as she stood abruptly. "Actually, I completely forgot that I have to - "

"Mhmm," She nodded, playing along with Pansy's feigned sense of urgency.

" – to check on the decorations - "

"Right."

"- for tonight. Yes. The decorations." Pansy nodded furiously. "You know how the help can be at balls. I doubt any of them have ever seen gold candelabras, much less know how to arrange them."

"Of course." She pretended to agree.

"They can't be trusted to decorate the ballroom on their own, no, they definitely need my supervision." Pansy nodded firmly.

"Suuuuure." Hermione and Daphne said simultaneously.

"Oh, sod off, both of you." Pansy scorned playfully before exiting the dining hall.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. She reached for another spoonful of apple slices and turned to Daphne, who was currently working on her second scone.

"I don't have time to linger beside anyone's bed today, anyway." She stated. "The council needs my input on the mobilization strategy."

"Ugh," Daphne remarked. "Sounds dreadful. Thank goodness you're the one with the crown and not me. I would hate to have to study military warfare tactics on top of all of the other subjects' women are expected to master."

"I quite like it, actually." She shrugged.

"Studying?" Daphne scoffed. "Hermione, we all know you adore that."

"I meant studying _warfare_." Hermione retorted with a playful attitude.

"Like I said, it's a good thing you wear the crown."

_. . ._

_22 September 1455_

_10:03 am_

There was a soft knock on Hermione's bedchamber door followed by the entrance of two members of Hermione's Queen's guard. Both were tall with somber expressions clad in full uniform with their hands resting lightly on their swords, always ready to spring into action with a moment's notice.

"Hermione," The boy who knocked stepped further into the sitting area of her room and gave a familiar quick bow. His skin was darker than any glance of the sun could produce, but his eyes shone like a warm, late summer-day.

"Dean," She nodded, giving her friend a gentle smile.

Dean Thomas was her closest male friend – as close as socially acceptable – due to his near-constant proximity to her. He, along with his ivory-skinned companion – Roger Davies – were the two men that made up her close guard. She was rarely in a room without company like Pansy, Daphne or Minerva in which the members of the Queen's guard hovered along the walls of the room instead of at her side. But in instances where any other person would normally be alone, Hermione required the accompaniment of her close guards.

As a result, she has grown very familiar with these two men and they have finally allowed her to strip away the social norms of referring to her by her title. Although, due to both of their natural stubbornness, it took the boys nearly a year of Hermione constantly correcting their formal behavior to achieve the familiarity.

(Hermione had been slowly adjusting to her role as Queen for the past year in order to allow for a smooth transition from her uncle as Regent to her on the throne. Formal administrative duties had been withheld from her the past year, but she was still able to learn and practice some of the responsibilities of the Crown. Including the accompaniment of guards.)

She followed Dean out of her room and into the expansive halls of the palace. The Palace of Hogwarts was truly a maze for those who weren't familiar with its complicated layout.

"How are you today, Dean?" She cast a glance to Roger on her left. "Roger?"

"We should be asking you that." Dean commented.

"Well, I asked first." Hermione smirked to which Roger laughed.

Dean shook his head, but a smile spread across his honey-colored lips. "I'm well. I was just talking with Seamus this morning and he says that his father seemed especially stressed."

"More than usual?" Roger cut in.

"Apparently so," He chuckled, then turned his attention to Hermione beside him. "Anything you need to worry about?"

She tried to keep her expression blank as she turned the corner, aware of his eyes boring into her. Searching for a reason to be concerned for her well-being as he always did.

"I doubt it, Dean," She replied. "I'm sure everything is fine, but I'll know for sure by lunch."

"Right," He remarked.

The three of them, as they so often did due to their near-constant presence in each other's company, assumed a comfortable silence as they continued walking.

The halls of the palace, usually barren and calm, were full of people hustling about and emanated with the clamor of their conversations. There were several men moving large decorative flags of garnet and gold – the royal family colors – and floral arrangements in 3-meter-tall vases toward the ballroom. Behind them were women carrying not only enormous golden candelabras, but also other gold décor and dishware.

Only the finest for their new, young Queen.

Hermione fretted for a moment how horrendously ostentatious her wedding or coronation would be if this were simply the formal ball to honor her birthday.

Though, to be fair to Minerva – who was the culprit behind the elaborate organization – this _was_ a special birth year.

She walked briskly through the halls, giving curt nods to those who greeted her, and found herself running into someone as she rounded the last corner leading to the infirmary.

"Oh!" She bit back an instinctive _My apologies_ and looked up to see widened green eyes staring down at her. "Oh," she smiled fondly. "It's just you, Harry."

"Yes, my apologies, Your Highness." He replied.

"Please, do stop that." She chided playfully.

"As you wish, Hermione." He grinned.

Dean and Roger needed no further instruction and took positions at a comfortable distance – never too far away – in order to allow Hermione what slight amount of privacy she was granted.

"You look better." She remarked, pointing to Harry's current state (in all honesty, he looked no less of a mess than usual, but he was clearly not severely injured). "I heard about your burn. How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you." He shot her a presumptuous look. "You going to visit your new friend?"

She ducked her head to hide the blush that crept up on her cheeks and swatted his shoulder.

"You're lucky I can't tease you back unless I want to lose my head." He said.

"Oh, yes," Hermione nodded. "I'm very fond of treasonous beheadings."

Harry laughed and Hermione found herself laughing along with him. Soon they were both doubled over and wiping tears from the corners of their eyes.

"I could just - " Hermione said between gasps. She indicated the motion of giving a command. "- and you'd - "

Harry pulled his thumb across his neck and emphatically stuck his tongue out between their bouts of laughter.

"I would just - " He clutched his abdomen. "I would be headless!"

"Unless the executioner - " Her fingers lifted to cover her mouth briefly. " – misses!"

"Oh, god, could you _imagine_?"

"It would be horrible!" She agreed. "They'd probably have to try more than once."

"Bloody hell, and if he doesn't miss but does a terrible job?" Harry countered. "I'd be _nearly_ headless!"

"Nearly headless?" Hermione doubled over in laughter again until she had to lean against the wall for support as she tried to calm her breathing back down to a normal pace. "How could someone be _nearly headless_?"

When she and Harry finally gained some control over their heart rates, he offered her a sideways smile and jerked his thumb behind him at the infirmary doors.

"I don't suppose a raven-haired beauty was going to pay me a visit, or would it be too hopeful to assume she would be as doting as you are toward your handsome stranger?"

Hermione shook her head. "Over her dead body, likely."

"Fair enough." He nodded.

"Though, I do happen to know where she can most likely be found right about now." She taunted.

Harry grinned, "Oh?"

"You see, there's this rather important ball tonight…"

"You don't say?"

"... and I believe she finds our current decorators to be… unqualified."

"Of course."

"So, she's most likely losing her temper over some gold-plated bowls in the ballroom on the third floor." Hermione finished.

"Thanks," Harry nodded and tucked a loose curl behind her ear before dashing off down the hall toward the grand staircases.

"Harry?" Hermione called after him. He turned with a quizzical expression on his face. "If she tries to send you away, because I have a feeling she will, do tell her that I sent you?"

"She's going to be furious." He shouted back.

"I know." Hermione grinned wickedly and watched his messy black head of hair disappear as he descended the stairs.

She turned to the large oak doors in front of her and let Roger hold the door open for her to stroll into the infirmary. She had been there herself only two days prior and yet it felt like so much longer; she supposed that was natural considering the number of crazy events and meetings she had to endure this week.

She nodded to Dean and Roger who, after sweeping the vast room for any possible dangers, deemed the space safe enough to linger by the doors and let her continue into the room on her own.

The scent of lavender oil overwhelmed her senses as she glided down the rows of beds to find her platinum-haired stranger. He was sitting upright with a fresh linen chemise clinging to his torso; Hermione had to physically restrain her gaze from lingering on the small gap below his collarbone where she could see his bare chest.

She knew he was attractive – even covered in dirt and unconscious – but seeing him clean, alert and with his stormy grey eyes watching her every step as she approached him, it was more than attractive. It was heavenly. It was _magical._

Suddenly, jerking her out of her reverie, Hermione remembered why he seemed so familiar to her despite having never met him.

He was the angel in her dream; when she'd sat in the very same cot and woken from the haze and darkness than enveloped her the night of her birthday. Her brown eyes narrowed at him, squinting as the harsh morning light shone through the large windows and onto his fair hair and complexion.

With the light behind him, she could see her memory coming back to confirm her suspicions. The bright white light creating this odd sort of halo effect around his head, and with his eyes widening as if he recognized her too, she truly felt as though she was right. It had to be him.

"You," She breathed as she moved to sit on a stool beside his cot.

The healer had left it there from last night and was currently on the other side of the room explaining to Seamus how often to apply a salve to his minor burns.

"Have we met?" She ventured.

He nodded enthusiastically.

"We have met! I knew it." She took his hands in hers. "You're the one." His fingers clasped tightly onto hers. "You're the one from my dream, although, I suppose it wasn't really a dream, then was it?"

His lips twitched upward into a ghost of a smile.

"What's your name?" She asked.

He mouthed something she couldn't quite make out, then frowned and released her hands. His eyes darted back and forth in a moment of panic before he gasped and raised a hand to grasp his throat.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked gingerly.

His grey eyes flickered up to meet her curious gaze, then his finger emphatically pointed to his throat. He opened his mouth to speak again, but nothing came out.

"Your voice?" She guessed.

He solemnly nodded.

"You can't speak." She repeated, the observation settling. She deflated and let her posture fall well below Minerva's standards for a moment of disappointment.

She could remember her angel's voice more clearly than any hazy image her brain had manufactured.

_What would I do to see you smiling at me?_

"You can't be who I thought you were, then." She said.

"Well," She sighed. "I'm glad to see that you've recovered, though I suppose I can't exactly ask you where you're from without cartography, hm?"

He shook his head once, and a few loose strands of blonde hair fell onto his forehead. He raked a hand back through his hair, returning it to its perfect swept-back state.

"I hate that I don't know your name." She said wistfully. "Perhaps, I can guess it?"

He arched a brow at her as if to say _Can you?_

"That is, of course, unless you have an incredibly unusual name like my own." She gave him a crooked smile. "You do, don't you?"

His lips twitched upwards again, and he provided her with a slow, purposeful nod. Then, he cocked his head to the side and placed his fingertips gently on her forearm, looking up at her with a curious expression on his face.

"Oh, how rude of me!" She tried not to let his warm touch elevate her heart rate above its normal pace. "My name is Hermione."

His eyes sparked a light silvery hue as the late morning light caught them.

"Hermione!" Came a booming voice from the entrance to the infirmary.

Hermione shot a quick glance over her shoulder to Minerva's purposeful stride and stern look of disapproval before whipping her head back to catch the stranger's quizzical gaze.

"Uh oh," she murmured to him under her breath. "Looks like I'm in trouble."

She stood and smoothed down her skirts, then turned with an innocent smile across her rosy lips. Minerva was already within meters of her with Dean and Roger in her wake, walking at a fast pace in order to keep up with the woman.

"Minerva," She greeted warmly.

"Hermione," Minerva repeated in a hushed tone. "You know very well the council is expecting you any minute."

"Yes," She nodded curtly. "I was just leaving." She cast a glance behind her at the stranger and winked while Minerva directed her attention to the frenzied Madam Pomfrey.

"Why is it that I find you here again? Was it not clear when I tore you from that stool last night that you have more pressing matters to attend to than some injured boy?"

Hermione frowned. "Minerva, he's not some injured boy."

"Well, he's certainly not royalty." She shot back.

The stranger doubled over in a fit of dry coughs but waved away Madam Pomfrey's descending figure as he cleared his throat and offered a strain smile.

"He's our guest." Hermione stubbornly reminded her advisor.

"I know, my dear, but as I said you have duties that require your attention at the moment."

She clasped her arms in front of her – the royal equivalent of placing her hands on her hips – and said, "I'm well aware of my duties. I was simply checking in on the health of a man that I found unconscious at the edge of the Forbidden Forest last night."

"Hmm." Minerva pursed her lips.

"Besides," Hermione added with a sweet smile spreading across her lips. "I wanted to personally invite him to the ball tonight."

She peered over her shoulder through her plentiful of curls at the handsome stranger. He sat upright in the cot with his attention focused intently on her.

"You don't have any plans tonight, do you?"

He shook his head.

"Excellent." She replied with a coy smile. He smirked at her in response and she found herself quickly diverting her concentration to Minerva. "See to it that he's given a room and a complete wardrobe along with help settling in and getting ready."

"Hermione," Minerva warned.

"Please."

It was a statement that her own advisor warn she not use too frequently. For a queen should not overuse sentiments of kindness or forgiveness unless unduly called for. It made rulers appear weak when they were relied upon to be strong and unyielding. Demands were much more appropriate, though Hermione found it quite difficult to ask Minerva for such a steep request without use of the pleasantries.

"Very well." The woman conceded. She gestured to the massive wooden doors on the far side of the room. "The Council." She reminded her.

Hermione nodded her understanding but as she stepped gracefully toward the exit, she turned back once more to peer at the man who so quickly enraptured her.

His stormy eyes bore into her and, despite the distance between them, she felt her breath hitch as a slow smile formed on his supple lips.

_. . ._

_22 September 1455_

_10:59 am_

Two knights stood outside the chamber, guarding its entrance from those who did not belong. This particular chamber room, hidden behind a false lavatory, was known as the Chamber of Secrets because of its confidential information pertaining to the kingdom's utmost important members. There was the larger, more well-known council that met more frequently and over less serious manners, but this intimate council that she was about to meet with was much more secretive. Only four people were granted entrance to the secret council.

Minerva was not one of them.

(Much to Hermione's delight, neither was Uncle Colbert. He was no longer needed as Regent and thus, simply no longer needed.)

Neither were any of her Queen's guards, though they were allowed to wait outside for her.

She stood beside Hermione and gave her a curt nod, then left her to address the two knights clad in shining silver armor alone.

Hermione waited until Minerva's rhythmic steps against the stone floor faded into silence. She tilted her chin up at the heavy metal door before her kept her eyes trained on the enormous brass handles, avoiding making eye contact with either of the knights.

"Enemies of the Heir beware." She said smoothly.

The two knights moved from their fixed positions to grant her entrance into the small, dim room. Its tight space allowed for no more than a single cartographic table for furnishings. An ornate chandelier hung from the extremely high-vaulted ceilings that were adorned with paintings of serpents among realistically depicted cracks in the framework.

It was undoubtedly unusual for Hermione to be permitted not only entry into the chamber, but also a voice in the secret council. But, since Hermione was the monarch and the only living member of the royal family, she was allowed a voice among The Council despite being of the fairer sex.

The Council consisted of three prominent figures of society, all of which held an important role in ensuring the safety and prosperity of not only the kingdom, but also of Hogwarts.

The first position was held by the Master of Coin, Grand Master Gringott, who was currently scribbling notations in a notebook with a quill. He was a small statured man – a dwarf as some people would call it – and was notorious for regarding everyone with a healthy dose of skepticism. He would count and recount the wealth of the kingdom seven-fold before ever committing to a final value for any notion of recording or input.

The second position was held by the High Constable, Sir. Finnigan, who luckily did not have the same affinity for fire as his son did. Sir. Finnigan stood as the Head of the Queen's guard and also served as the leader of the cavalry for the kingdom. His insights in infantry and warfare were invaluable, especially given the nature of that day's meeting.

However, it was the opinion of the third position, the Hand of the Queen, that held the most weight in any strategic discussion. Hermione valued his thoughts deeply. Admittedly, it was unconventional for the Hand to not be beside the monarch throughout the day to give advice and insight daily, but that was the nature of his and Hermione's relationship. She relied on Minerva for most of her mundane duties, then turned to him for her graver concerns. He preferred to keep to himself, spending most of his time perfecting his potions and advancing his knowledge of alchemy rather than follow around the young royal all day. She didn't mind it either, seeing as his company wasn't the most comforting. As it was, he was currently brooding by the hearth.

As she strode into the room and the heavy doors closed behind her with a deafening thud, the three men snapped their heads up to face her and offered their greetings to the young Queen.

"Your Grace," one man – the Hand – drawled. He stepped away from the hearth to stand beside the cartographic table; his bulky black robes billowing as he glided across the narrow space.

"Grand Master Snape," She replied coolly.

"Your Grace," Sir Finnigan said. "We have news from the eastern border."

"What is it?" Hermione pressed.

"Moody reported that the so-called Grindelwald army has set up camp on the shore and appear to be training for battle." He frowned and Hermione could identify the nervous habit of cheek-biting from her own frequency with such a bad habit.

"What else?" She said.

"Well," he continued. "They don't seem to be training in the traditional sense. Moody couldn't identify more than 100 men, but only half of them were wielding shields and swords against each other."

"And the others?" She asked.

"Sparks or fires of some sort. Moody says that those with the lights were harder to see – they obscured themselves better – but he witnessed several light flares between them."

"Interesting," Snape commented.

Hermione's glanced askew to him, "What is it?"

"It's possible," he drawled, pulling out every syllable with the speed of molasses, "that they are using magic."

"_Magic_?" Gringott squealed.

"I believe so." He responded.

Hermione frowned, "Pray tell, why is that?"

He tugged at the white peeking out of his long black sleeves before crossing his arms and looking down at her from down his crooked nose.

"You didn't really believe magic just _disappeared_ after the defeat of the Dark Lord, did you?"

She pressed her lips into a thin line, opting not to respond. She _had_ believed just so, though at his snide tone she questioned herself and mentally scheduled a trip to the library to read up on the history of the Wizard War.

"What do you want to do?" Sir Finnigan addressed her.

Hermione's gaze dropped to the cartographic table; she ran a finger along the peaks and troughs of the miniature mountains of the northern border as she moved along the edge of the table to view the eastern border where the supposed army was located.

She mentally calculated their defenses and considered their options.

"We should move Fletcher's company to create an extra layer of protection between Hogwarts and the eastern border."

"Yes, Your Grace. I will send word immediately." Sir Finnigan conceded.

She nodded to herself, then found Gringott's eyes from across the table.

"Do we have enough funds to move Fletcher and his men?"

"With or without extra provisions?" Gringott asked.

"With." She replied firmly.

Having both Moody and Fletcher's companies present on the eastern border for an extended period of time – given that it's wholly unclear what Grindelwald's army plans on doing nor when they plan on doing it – will require an abundance of surplus and supplies to keep them well-fed and prepared for the upcoming winter, should they still be stationed there.

Gringott's beady eyes darted back and forth as he stared off into the far wall. When he re-focused his attention on Hermione, he gave a curt nod, satisfied with his final calculations.

"Yes, we can spare the funds for the move and extended stay. Easily up to two months, but after that we may need to pull from the vault."

Pulling from the vault was dangerous, especially if something else should come up that would require an immense expenditure.

Hermione eyed the board once more and went over the possibility of a potential battle or war in the upcoming year. The kingdom would survive, she concluded, though for the men to endure the grueling winter to come, they would certainly need more gold. The extra men will help not only to enforce the boundary of the kingdom, but also to look out for any more unusual behavior supporting Snape's theory of magic-use and Minerva's theory of Durmstrang involvement.

She pondered her own predicament with Lord Krum before addressing her Hand and High Constable.

"Is there any indication of alliances between the Durmstrang kingdom and this Grindelwald army?"

"There were ships spotted off shore with the Durmstrang flag, but..." Sir Finnigan's words drifted off as he surveyed the map between them. "It's unclear. We don't know if that's how this army came across our border or if it were purely coincidence."

"Coincidence?" Snape scoffed.

Hermione clasped her hands together behind her back; she understood his apprehension. For one thing, she didn't believe in coincidence. Another would be the inclusion of a Durmstrang prospect for her hand in marriage. Perhaps Lord Krum is innocent in any plot to take her throne, or – more likely – he is in her kingdom to ensure his ascension to her throne. It would be unpleasant to think of that at his reason for being here, but it was also difficult to ignore the fact that an army with alliances to his kingdom were sitting on the edge of her own kingdom, ready to take it should he fail to do so.

Her eyes met Snape's and she knew from his skeptic expression that their thoughts were one and the same.

"What do you think?" She asked him.

"I believe," he started with a low voice. "That we should keep a close eye on Lord Krum."

She nodded.

"Sir Finnigan," She said, turning her attention back to the gruff man. "Have one of your knights tail him. Inconspicuously, of course, if he is involved, I don't want him to know we're onto him."

"Consider it done." He promised.

"Thank you," She concluded. "All of you. We'll reconvene later in the week."

They murmured their goodbyes and stood with attention as she swept across the room toward the heavy doors and let her fist fall three times to let them know the meeting was over. Dean and Roger fell in line beside her as she headed for the courtyards, finding herself no longer hungry for lunch.

_. . ._

_22 September 1455_

_11:17 am_

Daphne took the hand of the groom as she stepped out of the carriage and onto the dirt path. Her black boots were immediately covered in dust along with the bottom trim of her grey skirts. She'd purposefully wore one of her less gorgeous day gowns for this particular task, as she knew very well how much filthier the village outside of Hogwarts was.

That was not to say she thought any less of the town or its people, but one could so easily become accustomed to fine things and spotless marble floors after spending time in the palace. Truth be told, her own family was from a town quite similar to one like this, though luckily, they owned an estate on the outside of that town. Her childhood home was surrounded by acres of beautiful green pastures.

In the pleasant summers, she and her sister would spend the afternoons galloping across the rolling hills and falling into the luscious grass with giggles and sweat-soaked hair.

It had been too long since she'd done anything quite so exerting.

With a wistful glance at the brown hues of the town that so horribly contrasted with her colorful memories, Daphne announced to any passersby of the gifts for them from Her Royal Highness. In no time, she was assembling the townspeople into an orderly line and directing them toward the back of the carriage where a set of mares had carried a trailer of cornucopia on a trailer.

The morning sun shone brightly down on her, and despite the occasional cool breeze that flowed between the crowded buildings of the busy market street, Daphne felt her temperature rise. She removed her bonnet and attempted to fan herself away from hysteria; when this proved futile – as it was only drying the sweat on her neck rather than cool her down – she revised her plan and left one of the palace men that had accompanied her in charge of distributing the remainder of the cornucopia in exchange for a well-shaded side street.

Unfortunately, she'd barely made it several meters before collapsing against one of the store walls that lined the street. Instinct told her to drink water and remove one, if not several, of the many layers that was trapping her body heat and bringing her to exhaustion.

"Oh, dear!" Someone exclaimed. "Cedric, my boy, come over here!"

The elder man beckoned a younger version of himself over and both of their golden, hazel eyes peered down on her.

The younger boy – Cedric – placed a hand gingerly on her shoulder, then tilted her chin up to face him with his other hand.

"Are you alright, milady?"

"I'm fine," Daphne huffed, "and I'm not a lady."

The boy's lips twitched at her retort and moved to wrap her delicate fingers around a canteen.

"You look like a noble woman to me. Drink." He instructed.

She narrowed her gaze, her eyes flickering between his flushed cheeks and the leather pouch he'd placed in her grasp.

"I don't know you," she murmured, "how can I know that you aren't attempting to poison me?"

He shrugged, "I suppose you don't know. I promise you that I'm not, Miss…"

"Greengrass," she replied reluctantly.

"Miss Greengrass," Cedric smiled. "I do know that you need water," he glanced behind him at the busy street, "and to get out of the sun and the crowd."

Daphne immediately winced, recognizing his truth in the fact that there would no doubt be rumors of her illness and his proximity by sundown.

Finally, she put her lips to the canteen and drank the precious liquid. She thanked him repeatedly as he helped her to her feet and denied he and his father's many requests to help her go wherever she needed to go.

With a polite wave, she sank into the cushioned seats of the carriage and dared to loosen the top of her corset and gown. This task had been surprisingly exhausting, and while the strange boy had been handsome, she was glad to be out of the sun and on her way back to Hogwarts.

. . .

_22 September 1455_

_12:34 pm_

Daphne and Pansy were arguing in hushed tones when Hermione approached them. She walked as quietly as she could behind them on the cobblestone path intent on listening in on their conversation before making her presence known.

"Pansy, you're being ridiculous." Daphne scolded.

"I am not!" She protested.

Pansy, who had her arm linked in Daphne's, pulled away to face her and noticed Hermione behind them.

"How long have you been there?" She said.

Hermione rolled her eyes and moved to stand between them as the three of them continued circling around the courtyard.

"Not long enough," She lamented. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." Pansy replied firmly, eyeing Daphne with one of her signature glares.

Much to Hermione's surprise, Daphne remained silent and instead tilted her chin up to the sky. The sun shone down on her perfect skin which radiated beneath the harsh midday light. Hermione, once again, found herself envious of her friend's beauty; Daphne was the kind of beautiful that inspired sonnet's and verses. The kind that had numerous men lining up to marry her despite her lack of title.

But Daphne had to be careful, Hermione knew, in choosing a husband because it would affect the social standing of her entire family, and most importantly, of her younger sister. If Daphne were to rise in rank, then Astoria would be a more eligible prospect for marriage.

"Hermione," Daphne said, bringing her attention back down and letting her golden waves bounce around her exposed shoulders. "Have you thought about what you're going to do about your suitors? You only have a few more days to decide."

"I know," She frowned. "Lord Krum is out of the question. It's possible that he may be after the crown."

"Hermione, they're all after the crown." Pansy reminded her.

"Not Harry," She countered – Pansy's eye twitched at the mention of Harry and Hermione made a mental note to bring it up later – "But I didn't mean it like that. There's word of the formation of an army on the edge of the kingdom which may or may not have ties to Durmstrang."

"You think that Krum is involved in some plot to overthrow the kingdom?" Daphne questioned after glancing around to make sure no one could overhear them. Dean and Roger, now accompanied by Seamus, surrounded them from a distance that was close enough to protect them but not close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"I'm not sure." Hermione confessed. "But I'm not taking any chances by letting him get closer to me."

"Good idea," Pansy said. She arched a dark brow at Hermione, "So, that leaves Longbottom."

"It appears so," She sighed.

"He's not that bad," Daphne chimed with a soft grin. "He's amiable and would probably make a decent consort."

"_Decent_," Hermione repeated with a groan.

"He's boring." Pansy commented. "But," she continued with a smirk. "He does come from a wealthy family. Apparently, his parents died when he was young and left him several estates and more gold than one could ever need. Even his Grandmother was left a considerable stipend."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up; it was incredibly rare for a woman to be left any wealth from deceased family members. If Lord Longbottom was as well-off as Pansy believed, then marriage – and thus a strong alliance – with him just became more than decent for Hermione. His income would greatly improve the kingdom's wealth which was especially tempting considering the possibility of an upcoming war.

"Really?" Daphne gasped.

"How do you know?" Hermione pressed.

Pansy shot her a haughty grin. "It's my job to know everything about anyone with any interest in you."

"What about those with an interest in _you_, Pans?" Hermione taunted.

She gave her a playful shove which earned her a scornful look from Pansy.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She replied.

"Oh, please." Daphne said with a smug smile, "You might as well tell her."

"Tell me what?" Hermione interjected, glancing between the two girls with narrowed eyes.

"Harry," Pansy started slowly, "has made several advances to court me."

Hermione suppressed a laugh at the grimace on her friend's face.

"I know," She said. "He's a great match for you."

"I - " Pansy cut herself off, then stopped walking to face Hermione and Daphne. "What do you mean you_ know_?" She directed her glare at Daphne. "Did you say something?"

"I didn't say anything!" Daphne protested, darting out of Pansy's reach.

"She didn't," Hermione supplied with a feigned innocent smile.

"Why are you so amused?" Pansy shot at Hermione. "He's _your_ suitor."

"Pans, don't be dense. Harry doesn't have eyes for anyone in this palace except for you, and besides, I've already talked with him about this. We both agreed that we'd rather marry someone we care about – someone we love – if we can."

"_Someone you love_?" Pansy echoed aghast.

At the same time Daphne said, "Aw, that's sweet."

"That's not sweet." Pansy remarked. "That's wishful thinking. You're hopeless, child!" She directed at Hermione. "We've been over this: you can't afford to wait around for an eligible man that you love, you have to choose a consort by the end of the week."

"I don't see why the Council demands I choose a husband the week of my birthday. It's not as if the coronation is any time soon. Why can't I wait until then?" Hermione complained.

Pansy's frustrated look softened into a sympathetic one as she swept aside a loose curl from Hermione's pinned up hair.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. It's the way it is it's - "

"The law." She sighed. "I know."

Hermione's gaze drifted over to the four young girls playing with pastel-colored ribbons in the open grass and giggling as they ran circles around each other in some game only they understood.

"I miss being a child." Daphne lamented, following along the same line of thought as Hermione. "Everything felt much easier when we were girls."

Pansy grunted, "It would have been even easier if we'd been born boys."

Hermione followed the wave of her friends' petite hand toward two boys play fighting with thick wooden swords and rolling around on top of one another in the dirt, neither of them with a care in the world.

"I bet they don't have to worry about learning useless manners, subjects, languages, or arts to impress a future partner." Daphne sighed.

"I bet they don't have to listen to a bunch of old men tell them who is or is not a suitable partner." Hermione added.

"I bet they don't have to hold on to their virtue until they're married." Pansy finished.

All three of the women burst into fits of laughter, and when they tried to control their sudden outburst, they laughed even harder.

Hermione wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and as she did so, noticed a silver light gleaming from the tall, open windows that she recognized as the library. It reminded her that she needed to research something Snape had mentioned in their secret meeting.

"I have to go," Hermione informed them, then gave a signal to Dean and Roger. "I have to do some research on… warfare."

Dean approached the women as Roger stayed back to whisper something to Seamus.

"Of course, you do." Daphne said. "Well, don't forget Minerva wants us all to be dressed and ready for this evening by the time the sun starts to set."

"Fine, fine. I'll be there." She conceded.

Pansy directed a wagging finger at Dean, "Make sure that she does."

He nodded and turned with Hermione away from them but looked back over his shoulder as Pansy and Daphne followed Seamus back toward another entrance of the palace.

_. . ._

_22 September 1455_

_10:54 am_

Draco watched as the muggle queen – Hermione – left the infirmary with the deafening thud of the heavy doors closing behind her and her entourage.

Not even a moment later, Madam Pomfrey – the healer who was kind enough to dote on him so vigorously when he first awoke that morning – hurried over to his bedside and helped him stand beside it. His legs were strong, and he no longer felt dizzy or nauseous as he did when she first appeared by his side with a bowl of porridge and a cup of some awful remedy.

The memories of last night were a blur; he could recall an immense pain in his left forearm that shot fire through his veins as well as Theo and Blaise struggling to keep him upright as they trudged through the dark forest before he blacked out.

When the healer turned her back to him, Draco pulled up the sleeve of his linen chemise to see the Mark that Quirrell had promised would be there to help keep him on track with the time-sensitive enchantment of his muggle identity and quest to find this so-called Philosopher's Stone.

The Mark itself was as horrific as the enchantment had been; the dark ink stark against his pale skin. There was a human skull with its mouth open and a snake – similar to the very one that lead him to this fate – protruding out of the opening. What astonished Draco was that despite his new muggle identity, he could still see the magic of the Mark as the snake slithered slowly out of the opening toward his wrist.

Madam Pomfrey appeared in front of him again so he hastily covered up the moving ink, hoping that she hadn't seen it. He wasn't entirely sure how he would address such a phenomenon even if he could speak.

"Oh, dear," The older woman cooed. "You were clutching that arm last night when you arrived. You were screaming so loudly that I would have thought you were bleeding out or poisoned! But I didn't see anything there. Perhaps it was a phantom pain?"

Draco's eyes flickered down to his arm again and then back up at her. He let his shoulders rise and fall in a nonchalant shrug as if to agree with her last statement. If she couldn't see the Mark, then perhaps there was some sort of illusion charm entwined in it obscuring anyone aside from him from seeing it.

The wooden doors creaked as another figure entered the room. Draco turned to see Minerva – as Hermione had casually called her – approaching with two servants in tow.

She stopped in front of him and stared down at him with dark eyes glinting with disapproval.

"Young man," She began. "I am only here at the bidding of Her Royal Highness, Queen Hermione so, do not confuse my hospitality for kindness. You are not welcome here."

He restrained himself from depicting any form of distaste for her and instead, offered a curt nod of understanding.

"Apparently you don't speak." She continued, fixing him with a shrewd expression before directing it toward the healer. "Is this true?"

"Yes, Minerva. As far as I can tell, he is mute." Madam Pomfrey replied.

"Hmm." Minerva clasped her hands in front of her. "Come on, then. I'll show you to your room."

Draco followed her out of the infirmary and through the palace halls. They first passed through a long corridor with ornate, antique tapestries strewn from the ceiling and cascading down the walls; there were several portraits of men and women that hung over the tapestries, one of which caught his eye, but he didn't have time to process why because Minerva was already several meters in front of him.

He picked up his pace as they exited the corridor; the sudden breeze caught him by surprise as they suddenly appeared outside the palace walls. Draco realized they must be on some sort of viaduct that connected two parts of the palace. He peered over the edge to see that the arches below extended deep into the dark, black water beneath them.

This part of the palace (as with most of it other than the northwestern corner, honestly) had been obscured from Draco's view all these years, he never realized quite how complex the layout of the grounds was. The southern end of the palace rested on the edge of a mountain with the lake below them extending up toward the western edge.

Draco tore his wondrous gaze from the expansive layout of the palace grounds to the upcoming entrance and quickly ducked behind Minerva and the two boys as a guard help open the door for them.

"Down that corridor," Minerva said as they descended a set of stairs. "You'll find the Great Hall. It's where you will have most of your meals during your stay at Hogwarts. Further passed it are great double doors that lead to the Entrance Hall."

She cast a glance at him with one arched grey brow.

"As per Her Highness' request, you are invited to the ball tonight to honor her birthday. You will be met in the Entrance Hall, wait at the bottom of the Grand Staircase, and then escorted to the ballroom from there. Understand?"

Draco nodded his affirmation.

"Good." She remarked. "The Grand Staircase can be used to access each floor of the palace; however, we're going this way to your rooms."

She led him through a spacious chamber and down a narrow archway. Luckily, Draco wasn't particularly claustrophobic, though he suspected the stout boy in front of him probably was.

At the end of a poorly-lit corridor, Minerva stood aside to reveal an armored door with rusted brass handles. The larger of the two boys swept in front of her to open the door with a murderous creak.

Minerva offered him an unpleasant smile.

"The Queen did request that I put you up in a set of rooms as well as provide you with help and a wardrobe for this evening's festivities. Well," She pursed her lips and Draco fought the urge to sneer at her delight in her twist of Hermione's words. "The rooms on the higher floors are occupied by all of the guests that arrived days ago so, you'll have to be situated down here. Don't worry, young man, these rooms may be in the dungeon, but they aren't as bad as they appear."

Draco wandered into the dim chambers and immediately noted the roaring of the waves that crashed against the thick windows along the far wall. Apparently, the dungeon was below the level of the lake. An uneasy feeling washed over him as Minerva shut the door behind her with a resounding thud, leaving he and the two servant boys to glow a sickly color beneath the green light.

The two boys – who introduced themselves as Finn (the stout one) and Jack (the hefty one) – helped Draco settle into his new bedchambers before leaving him alone with the promise that they would be back in the late afternoon to assist him in dressing for the ball that evening.

As soon as they left, Draco leapt up from his position by the hearth to sprint back up the narrow stairway and into the spacious chamber above. He recalled that Minerva had mentioned some sort of expansive staircase that accessed all of the floors of the palace; Draco could not think of a better place to begin his search for information on the Philosopher's Stone.

An hour later – and nearly out of breath from running through every open room of the first two floors – Draco pushed through tall, dark wooden doors on the third floor that revealed what he'd been searching for: the library.

The smell of books overwhelmed Draco's senses as he wandered down the garnet carpeted aisle that stretched from the entrance of the library, past the double staircase that led to a higher floor, and all the way to the other end of the long room. There must have been thousands, no hundreds of thousands of books that line the shelves, with each bookshelf running from the floor to the ceiling.

He wasn't sure where to begin, after all, what _was_ the Philosopher's Stone? Would this muggle library even have any record of it if it was as magical and powerful as Tom Riddle promised?

Eventually, Draco figured out the classification system that Hogwarts used and pulled as many books as he could carry that he thought may have some insight into what he was looking for or how he was supposed to find it. He settled himself into a cushioned ledge below one of the open windows and opened the book on the top of his towering pile: _Gemstones of the World_.

"What have you got there?" Trilled a familiar voice.

Draco picked his head up from his book to see soft chocolate eyes watching him. Although his shoulders relaxed at her presence, he felt his heart rate increase as she moved to sit on the cushion opposite him, fanning her rusty, orange skirts out in a polite manner.

On anyone else, he suspected that the dangerous color would reflect poorly, or even horrendously, but on her it emphasized her warmth. The burnt color, closely resembling that of a late-summer sunset, complimented her deep brown hair that was pulled back into several tight, elaborate braids, as well as made her appear to be one with the fallen leaves and autumn tones of the courtyard below the open window beside them.

Her eyes flickered down to the book in his lap and Draco let her hands reach out to turn over its cover and read its title.

"Ah," She chuckled, amused at his taste in literature apparently, "Find anything interesting?"

He had, actually. Draco pointed at a paragraph on the page he'd been engrossed in before her arrival and let her read about the mysterious ruby that was supposedly involved in alchemical experiments in the early 14th century.

She gave him a mischievous grin and beckoned for him to walk with her.

"If you're looking for the Philosopher's Stone," Hermione stated plainly. "You're not going to find anything about it in this section of the library."

Draco's eyes widened at her casual reference to the very item that he was sent to retrieve from the palace and blinked several times before realizing that she wanted to lead him elsewhere. He offered her his hand which she took, resting her cold palm atop the back of his hand.

Up close, Draco could smell the sweet scent of roses, and noticed with an inward smile that her cheeks were rosier than when he first saw her enter the library. He hoped it was due to their proximity and the electrifying sensation that coursed through her with the slightest touch of him, as it did for him.

Hermione led him up the staircase to the upper floor of the library and greeted an older woman with jet-black hair pulled into a low bun that looked up at both of them from her large desk and crooked nose.

"Madam Pince," Hermione greeted with an innocent smile.

"Princess," the woman replied. "Though, I suppose it's Your Grace, now, isn't it?"

Her smile broadened to display a set of perfect teeth.

"It's alright," Hermione said. "I've been using it for years despite being rightfully Queen, and one birthday isn't going to make the change of title that easy (though, notably, in her case it certainly should). I doubt the formality of Your Grace will truly stick until after the coronation."

"I daresay you are right, and unequivocally forgiving for it." Madam Pince conceded. The dark eyes of the woman hardened as she turned her focus from Hermione to Draco. "Who are you?"

"He's a friend," Hermione assured her, cutting in. "We're here to do some light reading in the restricted section."

Madam Pince's tight lips pulled at one corner into a wayward grin.

"Light reading in the restricted section," She repeated with a soft grunt. "Go on, then, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Madam."

Hermione gave a small curtsy and Draco followed in her etiquette by giving the librarian a polite bow, then allowed Hermione to give him a tug toward the short stacks that lined the second floor of the palace library.

"The restricted section is off limits to most people." She informed him.

Draco smirked at her and shot her a challenging look as if to say, _But you're not most people, are you?_

"The restricted section is where all of the texts on magic or dark arts are kept." Hermione whispered as they made their way toward one of the rows in the back.

"Nearly a century ago, wizards lived among us and taught us normal humans – muggles as they liked to call us – some of their virtues. Anyone could visit the four Houses of their magical kingdom," She continued. "Though it was primarily nobles and royals who stayed in frequent contact with them."

Draco pretended to be interested in what she was saying, as if he were hearing it for the first time.

"Then the Wizard War happened." She said.

_The Dark War_, he thought.

"Since then, there's been no sightings of any of the Houses nor of any wizard." She turned down one of the rows, bringing him with her. "I thought perhaps that they had died off or moved on to another place, but it seems I may have been wrong."

At that, Draco _was_ surprised. She shouldn't know anything about magic still in existence in her world. He wanted to catch her attention and find some way to ask her what she meant but before he could she reached up on the balls of her feet and plucked a dusty, leather-bound book from the shelf.

"Here." She handed him the book and he took it, glancing down to read the title: _Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science_.

Hermione noticed the quizzical expression on his face as he opened the book and flipped through its yellowed pages.

"Alchemy was known as a magical sort of chemistry when the wizarding world existed, but now it seems to refer mostly to potion-making rather than the transmutation of elements." She shrugged.

Hermione pulled several books of her own from the row, which Draco carried for her, then directed him to a small corner of the upper level that left just enough room for them to sit down, though neither could fully extend their legs.

The book only had one page about the Philosopher's Stone, but it turned out to be full of valuable information to Draco; the Stone was an alchemical substance with magical properties that could be used to turn any metal into pure gold and to create the Elixir of Life, making the drinker of such a potion immortal.

There was no mention of how it could be used to produce a viable body for Tom Riddle or extend the muggle identity for Draco which brought immense frustration. He wondered if he had in fact made a terribly rash decision in trusting the enigmatic face on the back of Quirrell's head with his soul should he fail to provide the Stone to him.

Whether or not this Riddle was an honorable man who intended to hold up his end of the bargain, it seemed as though Draco had little choice on his end should he want to remain in possession of his soul. He could not fail this quest.

However, the book was not useful to him in regard to finding its hiding place within the palace as it recorded the size of the ruby-red stone to be no bigger than a brick meaning it could be literally _anywhere_ in the palace. He reread the paragraph about its creator, Nicolas Flamel, before slamming the book shut in frustration.

Hermione's head whipped up at the loud noise and Draco immediately felt that he should have been more careful to conceal his emotions; it was bad enough that she was aware of what he was looking for, there was no need to alert her as to how desperate he was to find it.

"Why are you so interested in the Philosopher's Stone anyway?" She asked him.

Her eyes narrowed as she closed her own book and set it aside. The fabric of her skirts ruffled as she readjusted her position on the floor to better face him.

"Are you a scholar or something?"

In a panic, Draco nodded. It was possibly the best cover for his intense interest in alchemy.

"That's brilliant." Her glare shifted into a soft appreciation. "I love learning. I imagine in another life that I would be a scholar, the brightest of my age."

Draco's lips twitched into a cocky grin and tilted his head to the side, _Is that so?_

"Oh, quiet." She scolded playfully. "You know," she continued, a serious expression returned to her face, "Grand Master Snape would be the person you'd want to talk to if you're specialty is alchemy. He's the palace's alchemist and learned from scripts that Grand Master Flamel wrote himself." She pointed to the book in his hands.

He arched a brow at her and crossed his arms.

"I read a lot." She shrugged. "Grand Master Flamel was an old family friend apparently, though I've never met him."

Draco dreaded having to let another person know what he was up to in the palace and therefore directed her attention away from the subject by gesturing to her stack of books with another arched brow.

Hermione sighed. "I was hoping to learn more about magical warfare. Spells and that sort that could be used against us. It seems there may be wizards still in existence after all."

She cut herself off with a dainty hand covering her lips, then chuckled and muttered something unintelligent under her breath. Her warm eyes rested on Draco with an amused grin spreading across her lips.

"I shouldn't be telling you this. _Any of this_. I suppose it's because I find myself so comfortable around you." She tilted her head and offered him a soft, sympathetic smile. "Unfortunately, I believe your inability to relay any of this information may be part of the reason."

At that Draco couldn't help but roll his eyes which only caused her to laugh more. He loved her laugh. The way it carried itself through her, bringing her to life; the way it started in her chest and shoulders and rose up to widen her smile and brighten her already alluring eyes. He wanted to hear it again.

It was what had drawn Draco to her in the first place, her carefree manner. She was beautiful and different than any other woman he'd ever encountered, but it was this, the way she laughed and told him secret information without a care in the world. The way she so fearlessly let her emotions show when no one was watching. No one except for him.

Draco felt his chest tighten at the possibility that he, and no one else, was allowed to see her in this light.

"Oh hell," Hermione groaned.

He turned his head behind him to see what she had cursed at, then swore internally at the deep hues of red and orange.

"Minerva and Daphne will have my head if I'm late to get ready for this evening." She lamented.

Draco stood, happy to stretch his muscles after such a long time in an uncomfortable position and lent a hand to help Hermione stand. Her cold hand fit firmly into his but when he pulled her up, she must have tripped on her skirts because they both toppled over and fell into one of the rows of bookshelves.

Hermione lay pressed up against him with her chest to his and her hair falling in loose curls around his face. He could see more clearly now that there were golden flecks among the deep brown color in her eyes, which widened at the aftershock of their fall.

Draco became immensely aware that not only were his hands resting on the sides of her hips, digging into the fabric of her dress, but also that his lips were only a breath away from hers. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so badly in that moment that it crippled him. It took every fiber of his being not do it.

Although, with the way her eyes darkened and darted to his mouth, he couldn't help but wonder if she wanted to kiss him, too.

Her delicate hands that had instinctively found themselves splayed on either side of his head to help brace the fall, now brought themselves to his chest to push herself upright and clamber off of him. He pulled himself up afterwards, feeling dizzy from the sudden lack of contact.

She smoothed her skirts, though it appeared more habitual than circumstantial to him, and pointedly avoided meeting his eyes.

"I better go," She muttered.

"Your Grace," Madam Pince poked her head around the corner of the row. "Your guards insist that you must go with them immediately."

"Very well," Hermione replied.

Madam Pince turned back around the corner and as Hermione moved passed Draco to follow her, he couldn't help but reach for her hand. His long fingers clasped around hers and pulled her back to him for one last touch. One last embrace. He swept a loose curl away from her face and let his thumb gently caress her cheekbone.

Rather than face any form of rejection for his forwardness, Draco broke away and fled the library and noted the hardened faces of the two young men who stood outside the library doors in full uniform with discontent.

In the brief time that he had been able to observe the muggle world from his cliff and from up close, he realized that their social customs were far more modest than in the wizarding world. It was a fact that he was incredibly uncomfortable with and unwholly sure of how he was possibly going to win Hermione's heart, or if he was even _allowed_ to.

_. . ._

**A/N - **Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited and/or reviewed so far. I really appreciate it. Also, this was one of my fav chapters to write so I hope you enjoyed it. Side note: my updates will be on saturday's from now on xx


	4. The Constellation

_. . ._

_**Chapter 4 – The Constellation**_

_. . ._

_22 September 1455_

_7:56 pm_

The sun set below the horizon with a brilliant display of bright orange, deep red, and vivid magenta. The vibrant hues reminded Daphne of the stained-glass windows in the Royal Chapel, and she wished she could secure fabrics with such colors so that she could have a go at recreating the masterpiece of the sky onto a gown.

With great reluctance, Daphne turned away from the open window and stepped back into the room to lounge on one of the velvet green sofas before the fireplace. Minerva and Pansy were both sitting across from her, though the nervous twitch of Minerva's clasped fingers and of Pansy's crossed ankles let her in on their well-hidden agitation.

The three of them had been waiting in the antechamber of Hermione's bedchamber for a while with no sign of the Queen showing up any time soon.

"She can't have disappeared. Can she?" Pansy fretted.

Minerva let out an exasperated sigh. "With Hermione, who knows."

"She's probably just running late." Daphne said. "She mentioned to me that she had to go to the library, and you know how she gets when she's in there."

"Brilliant," Pansy remarked. "So, she could be _hours_ late."

Daphne fixed her with a disapproving look, then stood and crossed the room to the vanity table where she'd laid out several shimmering pieces that would help accentuate the gown she'd selected – with Minerva's approval, of course – for Hermione to wear tonight.

Although, the first night the suitors had arrived had been Hermione's actual birthday, it had been primarily for introducing the suitors and required her to wear a traditional garnet gown that highlighted the royal family's colors. Whereas tonight, Daphne had been able to select a gown more fitting of Hermione's color palette – though in all honesty that woman could wear any color as long as Daphne had a say in the shape – and had been ecstatic to choose a periwinkle gown for the ball.

This evening was to be a spectacular, enormous event to honor her birthday as well as set the stage for her future coronation and wedding. Whomever Hermione decided to openly spend a lot of time with, in front of the noble public, throughout the evening would be presumed who she intended to select as her king consort.

"Where _is_ she?" Said Pansy impatiently.

Suddenly, the doors burst open to reveal Hermione – her hair a complete mess and her face flushed and perspired – with Dean and Roger in tow.

"I'm here!" She announced.

"Well, it's about time!" Pansy snapped.

Minerva held up a hand to the young noble and approached Hermione with a tired, irritated expression that she usually saved for occasions when Hermione either blatantly ignored her duties or carelessly forgot them.

"Hermione," She warned.

"I lost track of time." Hermione panted.

Daphne knew better than to expect an apology to surface, and quickly pushed three young girls toward the royal.

"Get her washed up," She ordered. "And do something about that hair or Lady Parkinson and I will be here all night and Her Grace will be late for her own celebration."

The girls nodded vigorously and stepped in between Minerva and Hermione in order to usher the latter toward her porcelain clawfoot tub.

Luckily for Daphne, Pansy seethed in silence as they prepared Hermione for the ball after she stepped out of the bath. When she was ready, Daphne stood back to admire her handiwork.

The satin bodice clung tightly to her slim waist and modest breasts, while the tulle fabric fanned out in several layers of skirts to play off of her average height in order to make her appear the very image of regality and authority that she was; even though it was nearly October, Daphne had managed to find some still-blooming flowers to sew into the skirt where the slate satin met the periwinkle tulle.

Pansy stepped forward with a delicate, silver crown, whose diamonds glittered beneath the candlelight, atop Hermione's head. Pansy had opted to pull the top half of her hair back into a braided knot – to keep it out of her face and prevent men from trying to tuck it away in some intimate romantic gesture, or so Pansy claimed – and let her naturally bouncy curls fall down her back.

"There." Pansy chimed.

"Thank you," Hermione breathed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the small vanity mirror.

Daphne beamed; the three of them then followed Minerva – who had just reappeared from getting dressed herself and was sporting a beautiful grey gown – out and down the several flights of stairs to the upper landing of the ballroom.

"When you are announced," She informed Hermione. "You will step through these doors, descend the final staircase, and walk _very ladylike_ through the path created by the guests. Do not make eye contact with anyone, do you understand? Keep your head up. Also, do not sit down on the throne until everyone in the audience is either bowing or curtsying."

Hermione nodded and clasped her hands in front of her.

"You two," Minerva directed her assertive gaze at Pansy and Daphne. "You will follow behind me. The same rules apply: no eye contact."

Daphne murmured her understanding and gave Hermione one last encouraging smile before following in Minerva's and Pansy's wake.

_. . ._

_22 September 1455_

_8:59 pm_

The trumpets sounded, bringing Hermione back from her internal reverie.

"Her Royal Highness, Hermione of the House Granger, the First of Her Name, by the Grace of God, Queen of Palace of Hogwarts, Queen of the Great Kingdom, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faith, Head of the Commonwealth, and Lady Regent of the First Kingdom."

Hermione exhaled deeply, shoved her shoulder blades back, tilted her chin up and proceeded through the doors that two knights dressed in full armor held open for her as the trumpets sounded again.

The marble echoed beneath her heels as she descended the staircase from the upper level of the ballroom into the lower level where hundreds of eyes were fixated on her. Each guest eager to get a close glimpse of their new, young Queen that had been promised to them over sixteen years ago; Hermione held her held dutifully high, with her chin angled toward the impossibly high ceilings.

Gold glimmered from the edges of the walls, ceiling and paintings depicted on it. Although her brown eyes were intensely focused on the throne on the far end of the room, she knew the procession of images above her head as she moved down the pathway created by the armored knights standing between her and her subjects.

Halfway down the walkway, not a single sound bouncing off the white walls except that of the grand piano and her heels rhythmically on the marble floor. Any nerves Hermione had previously felt on the other side of the door prior to her grand entrance had diminished the minute she'd stepped through it, and with the throne coming into clear view now, they had vanished altogether.

She climbed the few last steps just before the raised throne and stood in front of it for a full minute, then slowly spun around to face the crowd taking up the entirety of the massive ballroom. She'd done it. She'd managed not to trip, or make eye contact with anyone, or appear fragile and small.

Hermione felt as if she was on top of the world, floating somewhere high in the sky above the clouds. In magnificent unison, the guests – her subjects – expressed their loyalty with bows and curtsies. Finally, she sat back in her rightful place and rested her forearms on golden armrests of the throne.

"God save our gracious Queen,"

The crowd began to sing, at first off tune from one another, but then in marvelous synchronism.

"Long live our noble Queen

God save the Queen!

Send her victorious, happy and glorious

Long to reign over us

God save the Queen!"

Her people were, as expected, off-key, but the gesture alone had brought tears to Hermione's eyes as the fact that she was finally sovereign bore its full weight. She glanced instinctively to her left to give a formal, appreciative nod to Minerva, and then to Snape standing in the shadows beside her. On her other side stood her ladies, but behind them Hermione caught a glimpse of glinting green eyes.

Uncle Colbert's face was in its usual state, relaying none of his internal motions for external interpretation, but with the slight smirk she shot him after a young boy from the crowd called out one final, high-pitched, "God save the Queen!" she could see the corners of his eyes twitch and his lips turn into a distasteful frown.

Feeling as though she'd won that mental duel with the former Regent of her country – _her_ country – Hermione felt ready to take on any possible challenges the evening had to offer.

There was a traditional order to these sort of events – which thankfully Minerva had ample knowledge of due to her history with the previous monarchs of the Granger line – and although the armored knights had moved to allow the guests to mill about the ballroom floor freely, there would be no dancing until Hermione commenced it.

But first, gifts for the queen's birthday and her return to her rightful place on the throne, were to be presented before her.

The first man in line, a stout man with a full, dark beard and a booming laugh, stood before Hermione with a gracious grin and a goblet of wine already settled in his left hand. It was clear from his demeaner that he felt far too comfortable in her presence than was socially custom.

This made her want to humble him immediately. She refused to be known as a queen that was to be easily flirtatious or accommodating, lest anyone intend to take advantage of such a fact.

"Your Royal Highness," he greeted with an elaborate, dramatic bow.

She nodded without a word to him.

"I present to you a spool of fine, French lace," he gestured to the scrawny boy beside him who immediately stumbled up the three steps to kneel at her feet.

The boy didn't look up, keeping his eyes on the ground with his nervous, wavering hands holding up the stark, beautifully intricate spool of lace up towards her. Hermione arched a brow at the gruff man taking a long swig of wine.

"My wife," he continued with a cheeky grin, "She picked this out especially for you."

"Is that so?" Hermione finally said.

"Oh, yes! She may not be very bright, but the woman certainly has an eye for the finer things in life." He paused to laugh with the men behind him among the crowd, "Don't all those of the fairer sex, men? Can't trust our wives around our gold, can we?"

Several men joined in the laughter and nodded their empathetic approval of the man's sentiments.

Hermione tapped her perfectly filed nails against the clawed end of the armrest and hid the smile she felt creeping up on her rosy lips.

"Tell me, Lord…" She paused emphatically.

"Lord Benning," He announced proudly. "I'm a close friend of your Uncle Colbert."

_Well,_ Hermione mused internally, _that explains his misplaced bravado and ignorant comments_.

"Tell me, Lord Benning," She repeated. "Do you find that as a close friend of my dear uncle's that you are granted extraordinary luxuries?"

"I - " He lowered the goblet from his lips and refrained from taking another swig as he registered the dangerous tone in his Queen's voice. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Your Majesty."

"Then let me be perfectly clear," she clasped her hands in her lap and continued, "Do you find, Lord Benning, that because you were a close personal friend of the former Regent that you are exempt from the very same social customs that govern the rest of my subjects?"

Lord Benning closed his mouth and chose not to respond, to which Hermione believed to be the first intelligent thing he'd done that evening.

"Your Grace," breathed her uncle who had moved to stand beside the throne. "I believe Lord Benning means you no offense."

"Of course, he doesn't," She countered, "I'm sure our Lord knows better than to insult his Queen."

Lord Benning, shooting Colbert a grateful glance, nodded furiously.

"Yes, I would never offend you, Your Majesty!"

"Unfortunately, Lord Benning, close friend of my dear Uncle Colbert as you say, I'm afraid you already have offended me."

"I – But – How, Your Grace?"

"You say your wife admires the finer things in life." Hermione recollected. "That, and I do hate to quote you on this, but I'm afraid I must, 'all those of the fairer sex' share a similar trait and are thus untrustworthy with coin."

She tapped her fingernails again awaiting his comment.

"I meant no offense to you, Your Grace, I know that you are far above that of others of your sex."

Hermione sighed, "Lord Benning, that does not ease my conscious. While in the eyes of God and the church, it is true that I am above the rest of you, that does not mean that I am any less a woman."

"No, of course, not."

"But, as you say, women are not to be trusted?"

Hermione felt her uncle stiffen beside her and make a miniscule motion to alert his friend to avoid the trap she was laying for him. However, the efforts were entirely missed and thus Lord Benning, unintelligently, continued to protest.

"Well, not with important things, no. But as you can see my wife did a wonderful job in choosing a pleasing gift for you, Your Grace!" The pitch in his voice had increased along with his desperation to please his Queen.

"I see." Hermione now stood, which was indicative that this conversation was not going well, "So am I to understand that you find this great kingdom to be not important? Its people, as well, perhaps?"

"No, no - "

Hermione held up her hand to silence him. She had been dancing around his offense, but clearly, she needed to be more forward in addressing the slight.

"Lord Benning, I know that you are a proud man, and thus I only aim to correct you. To help guide you in your wrongdoing and make an example of you for any others here tonight who may have the same thoughts," She smiled sweetly. "Women are not objects. Women are not dull or dumb. Women have emotions and are capable of great feats, just as any man is. _I_ am your rightful ruler and I am of the _fairer sex_, as you so like to call women, so, do remember, any insult to women is an insult to your monarch and will be handled accordingly from now on."

She sat back down in her throne and felt the presence of her uncle dissipate as she watched Lord Benning's shoulders sink in sorrow.

"I apologize, Your Grace, please," he knelt down and clasped his meaty fingers together, "forgive me?"

Hermione did not want to publicly acknowledge his sad apology, but she knew politically it would look bad if she didn't. As it was, she'd already chastised the high-ranking Lord enough and did not want to endure any financial slights to the income of the kingdom or provide the lords who were feeling especially insulted at the moment any more ammunition to fight against her rule.

Instead of verbally offering her forgiveness, however, Hermione found a loophole by nodding her assent and taking the spool of fine white lace from the boys trembling fingers.

She ran her fingertips along the end that had begun to unravel and said, "Tell Lady Benning that she has done a fine job and that her Queen is quite impressed," He nodded his understanding as the boy descended the steps and stood behind his lord. "This _is_ fine lace."

The remainder of the guests and gifts went swimmingly and without any further interruption by anyone standing up on the slightly risen level with her, save for the occasional murmur from Pansy as to what gossip followed a particular noblewoman or nobleman.

The last guest to step forward instantly jerked a deep memory of Hermione's forward.

"Mr Diggory!" She exclaimed.

"Your Majesty," the elder man replied with a blush. "I wasn't sure if you would recognize me."

She nodded, "It's quite difficult to forget the man who teaches you how to ride a horse, especially when he was willing to teach you how to ride like a man."

Again, the man blushed, "I recall how much you disliked side saddle, Your Majesty. I felt obliged to abide by any demands of the future Queen, even if she was but an eight-year-old girl."

"My younger self is very thankful for your keen insight, Mr Diggory."

He nodded, then patted the shoulder of the young man who stood beside him.

"My only son, Cedric."

Hermione recognized his amber eyes, though the last time she'd seen them they'd been nearly bulging out of his childish face. Now, it seems, he's grown into them.

Truth be told, it wasn't the only thing he'd grown into. Bluntly put, Cedric Diggory was a handsome and strapping young man.

"Cedric," she nodded politely.

Cedric bowed, then offered a polite smile in return, "Your Majesty."

Hermione knew the suitors were hovering nearby waiting for the transition from their Queen gaining audience to dancing with one of them, but rather than give in to their power-hungry urges – thoughts to which she directed toward Lord Krum and Lord Corner rather than Lord Longbottom or Harry – she carefully stood and stepped down the steps to stand before Cedric.

Dancing with her childhood, and long lost, friend seemed like a much more pleasant alternative to giving the satisfaction of the first dance to one of the suitors despite how many times Pansy or Minerva had warned her of the importance of such a display of preference toward a potential king consort.

"Will you do me the honor of being my first dance of the night, Cedric Diggory?"

Cedric took her hand and played along with her formality, "It would be my pleasure, Your Royal Highness."

Hermione smiled and followed his lead to the center of the ballroom, which opened up as they moved through the crowd, both parties avoiding making eye contact with anyone gawking at them.

The music started up, bringing them into an upbeat dance with plenty of room for other couples to join them on the dance floor – which they did with much enthusiasm. Once the murmurs of conversation were bouncing off the high ceilings and decorated ballroom walls, Hermione felt confident that any whispers they shared would not be overheard.

"Tell me, Cedric," she began, "What brings you and your father here so late into the festive week?"

"Well," he replied after taking her back in from a spin, "I imagine my father wanted us here days ago. In all honesty, I believe he wanted me to be in the running for your hand."

"Ah, and you believe it is too late?"

"No, but ruling a kingdom was never something I pictured myself doing."

Hermione sighed, feeling a bit of déjà vu from her conversation with Harry, "Why is that?"

"My father is quite old, Hermione, and he doesn't have anyone else to leave the business to besides me."

"I see,"

"It's not as if I don't want to marry _you_," he added with a soft smile, "but I can't simply drop everything to be at your side, and what kind of husband would I be if I couldn't do that?"

Hermione let go of the stiffness that had risen through her shoulders and neck. She couldn't fault him for such gallant and thoughtful behavior, especially when he spoke of his concern for the inability to fulfill his duties as a _husband_ and not as king consort. However attractive it was, it did little to help her in her mission to find a suitable husband.

"I understand," she supplied sympathetically.

"Besides," he continued, "We both know your precious council won't settle for anyone less than a rich and powerful lord."

Hermione shot him a look of disgust, "Don't remind me."

"I take it you aren't fond of the men who are in the running for your hand?"

Hermione panicked at already giving so much of her dislike for the suitors away, firstly by choosing none of them to share the first dance with and secondly talking to Cedric as if none of them were an option. (While it was true, she hated the fact that _decent_ was as good as it was going to get seeing as Harry was all but out and the other two would likely find some way to accuse _her_ of treason not long after their marriage, it was still socially unacceptable for Hermione to be so forthcoming with where her feelings and intentions lie. With Harry it had been different, he was one of the suitors, but as Cedric pointed out, he was not. She could not risk any more information of the suitor's standings to slip.)

"Oh, no," she lied, "They're wonderful. I was making a face at the mention of my ever-demanding council. I was just curious as to why you weren't among them. I daresay, I almost expected to see you the night of my birthday."

"I apologize," he bowed as the first song came to an end, "but I do wish you a happy belated birthday, Hermione."

"Thank you, Cedric." She curtsied before moving to locate her next dance partner and had to fight a grimace as Lord Krum stepped forward.

After Hermione had granted all of her suitors at least one dance (Harry was off-rhythm the entire time, but she had expected that with his lack of knowledge with other requirements of the nobility, while Lord Neville Longbottom – after finally introducing himself by his Christian name to her – had been an astonishingly superb dancer.) she limped – because Krum had managed to bruise her toes at every turn and spin – to the side and was immediately sought out by Minerva and Snape.

"Your Majesty," Snape drawled.

She nodded in response.

A raven brow arched its disapproval as he looked down at her with his usual haughty expression.

"You've legally been Queen for less than a week and yet you've already managed to piss off one of the noblemen, and one with a substantial amount of land no doubt."

"Grand Master Snape! Language!" Minerva squealed.

Hermione brushed off his foul language as she had been used to it by now and knowing better than to take personal offense by it (at least from him). Instead, she focused on his accusation of her poor judgement call.

"What do you think I should have done, then?" She countered, careful to resist scowling lest any other nobles or important diplomats noticed her opposition in their conversation. She had no doubt rumors would spread with something along the lines of YOUNG QUEEN OFFENDS NOBLEMAN THEN IS REPRIMANDED BY HER HAND.

_No thank you,_ she thought as she forced an amiable expression onto her face.

Snape replied to her question with, "Not lecture the man in front of all of his proud noble friends, much less the entire kingdom."

She scoffed, "It was hardly the entire kingdom, Snape."

"No," He amended with a cross of his arms. "Simply the rich and influential half."

"Hermione, dear," Minerva cut in, sensing the tension between the two, "perhaps next time you disapprove of someone's commentary you can request a private audience?"

"And let the rest of the people believe he did no wrong?" Hermione smiled vacantly across the room before meeting her advisor's eyes. "I will call out any wrongdoing or slight when it happens, not in private where no lesson can be learned by the rest of the people."

"You mean where no example can be made of the guilty party?" Snape bemused.

"I'm told learning by example is one of the quickest methods to improvement in behavior or skill," she replied nonchalantly.

"You will regret this method, child." Snape scolded.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him before returning to her vacant pleasant expressions.

"I am not a child, Grand Master Snape. Do not confuse our familiarity, or your position as Hand of the Queen, for one that exempts you from acknowledging me as your queen, first and foremost."

Snape picked at an imaginary dust bunny on his black cloak, biding his time before responding with a shrug. He bowed briefly and murmured, "Your Majesty. If that is all, I must be leaving now. I have a potion brewing downstairs that requires my attention more than… _this_."

A wave of his hand toward the giddy and mostly intoxicated crowd of guests explained the venomous tone his voice took at his last word.

"Very well," Hermione nodded. "Oh, wait!"

Snape arched his eyebrow again, "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"The young man who was taken in last night. He is a scholar, and one interested in alchemy, I believe." Hermione watched as his cold, calculating eyes widened in realization as to what she was about to ask. "Would you be able to take him under your wing for a short while? I believe he would greatly benefit from learning from such a knowledgeable Master like yourself, and I trust he has a great deal to ask of you."

Snape's lips twitched into a frown, "Isn't the boy mute?"

"Yes, well," she paused, "I'm sure he'll find a way to get his inquiries across to you."

"Inquiries about what?" He pressed.

"The Philosopher's Stone."

"Hm," he grunted in response.

Hermione nodded once more, allowing her Hand to turn and leave; his dark cloak billowing behind him as he crossed the ballroom.

Minerva's look of disapproval warned Hermione that her suspicions that the boy's interest in the Stone was not to be taken lightly. As it was, this mythical and magical item held a lot of power and if one did exist in her kingdom it could very well be utilized as a weapon in taking the kingdom – and her place as its monarch – down.

But she had many other threats to worry about at the moment that were far more realistic, so she shoved the thought out of her head that this boy was a possible enemy and decided to let her angelic image of him in the infirmary take precedent once more.

"Hermione forget about that boy tonight and focus on your suitors. You need to spend more time with whomever you want to display to the nobles and other guests as the most likely candidate for your hand in marriage." Minerva instructed.

Hermione sighed and nodded, knowing all too well there was no use in fighting her on this; as it was, Pansy and Daphne had already spent a great deal of time on this exact argument.

"Perhaps," Minerva continued, in a pitch Hermione was all too familiar with from lectures, "Dance with a _nobleman_ this time?"

Without another thought, she took off toward the lanky, tall figure of Neville and pretended to be interested in how specific herbs could be used for medicinal or cosmetic purposes.

"Did you know oil from lavender can be used to heal wounds?" Neville asked her as he diligently led her into the next dance.

It should be noted that though this may be Lord Longbottom and Queen Hermione's second consecutive dance together – it would certainly be noted by other nobles – this was also the seventh or so (she'd lost count, honestly) question he had proposed of her just that evening.

"Yes, actually," she replied with a forced smile, "I did know that. I've actually read a lot about common medicinal practices."

"That's wonderful!" Neville commented happily. "You seem to be very well read, Hermione."

"Thank you,"

He paused and glanced to the floor – _his_ nervous habit that she'd already picked up on (it was somewhat of a talent of hers from spending years hiding her own) – before bringing his gaze back to hers and pulling her closer to him as per custom of the waltz they were currently engaged in.

"Hermione," he started.

She resisted arching a brow or appearing in any way demeaning; as it was she was having a difficult time of it and knew that if she offended him he would never accept a possible hand in marriage (not that she truly wanted to offer him the role of king consort, but sadly, he was the best option at the moment).

"Yes, Neville?"

"Why are you spending so much time with me?"

"I - " Hermione found herself genuinely caught off guard and once again forced her micro facial expressions not to betray her for the sake of rumor, "Why do you ask? Is it so terrible that I want to spend time with you? You _are_ a suitor for the throne after all."

"Yes, well," He stammered, "I didn't _actually_ think you'd consider me."

She blinked several times, twirled into his arms briefly, then twirled out. Once again, this conversation felt regrettably familiar.

"Then why come? Why be a suitor at all?"

The corners of his eyes pinched as he winced, and she mentally scolded herself for her harsh tone. He was more sensitive than she'd expected.

"Gran made me…" He said.

"Who?"

"Gran. My grandmother. Madam Longbottom,"

She blinked again, "_Viscountess _Longbottom?"

He bit his lip. "Right, err, yes, that's her formal title."

"Listen, Neville," Hermione said softly, "I spent so much time with you this evening because you are kind and genuine and…" she quickly hurried to find another adjective that was endearing but not a total lie (they both knew if she said _handsome_ or _interesting_ or something of the sort that he would be apprehensive of the compliment, and it would be especially worse if she was even more blunt and said _your wealth_ so) "… and brave."

He beamed at her miniature speech and dutifully bowed as the beautiful music echoing around the room came to an end.

"It was a pleasure to dance with you, Your Majesty," Neville said after righting himself – displaying his good breeding.

She curtsied in response, "The pleasure was all mine, Lord Longbottom."

. . .

_22 September 1455_

_9:41pm_

The ballroom had never been as elegant as this; Pansy had made sure of that.

She'd berated every worker in the hope of creating the phenomenal display before the guests. The candles glowed from atop every gold figure as well as from the hundred grand chandeliers that hung from the beautifully painted ceiling.

Just earlier that day she had imagined the image before her now: beautiful couples of nobilities admiring the room and dancing beneath its amber light as the pianist and violinist played the most romantic melodies.

In fact, the only thing she hadn't envisioned was the dark-haired, emerald-eyed nobleman – who didn't act like a nobleman – consistently following her around the ballroom all night (technically he'd been beside her earlier that day too when she'd been deciding between two decorative sets of china plates but she was currently trying to forget that interaction had even happened).

As Hermione began to open the dance floor with the gorgeous, mysterious childhood friend of hers, Pansy had stepped down from her former place beside the throne for no more than thirty seconds before being approached by no other than the very Lord Henry Potter of Grimmauld himself. The one that she had been intent on avoiding for the evening.

Heaven-forbid they have another interaction similar to the one that occurred only hours ago under the very same, newly painted ceilings that depicted many cherubs and symbols of fruition (which was now being called _Renaissance style_, apparently).

"Lady Parkinson," he greeted with a very formal – very low and ostentatious – bow.

"Lord Potter," she nearly (but didn't, because of her esteemed breeding) spat from between her teeth as she hastily curtsied and attempted to keep moving through the crowd.

He stepped between her and her clearance between the thick and expensive attire that followed the many noble guests around the ballroom.

"_Tsk-tsk_," he offered her a naughty smile, "You can't possibly think I'm going to let you off that easy after how you treated me this afternoon."

Pansy's jaw dropped at his haughty smirk, "I could certainly treat you worse,"

"Oh, of that Lady Parkinson, I have no doubt."

She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed her best I Am Better Than You and I Know How to Put You in Your Place expression on him.

In response, he smirked at her before looking out over her head at something in the crowd behind her.

"Neville!" Harry suddenly called out.

Pansy traded her less than favorable facial and physical expressions for something more appropriate as the awkward lord maneuvered himself between damsels – who neither acknowledged his presence nor moved at the indication of it – toward herself and her ever-present and highly-inconvenient companion.

"Pansy," Harry said as the man finally arrived beside him, "This is Lord Longbottom."

"Neville," he greeted.

"Pleasure," she responded dryly.

She immediately recognized the lankily man as one of Hermione's suitors for king consort. Though, judging by his awkwardness, Lord Neville Longbottom must be the very same suitor who – according to Her Royal Highness – was unapologetically and irreconcilably interested in herbs and other plants. Though, from what she knew from her castle spies, Lord Longbottom was also ostensibly wealthy. Wealthy enough to solve her young queen's problems with funding for a potential war.

"Neville," Pansy said with a sickly-sweet smile, "How are you this fine evening?"

"Oh, well, I'm - "

"Wonderful."

Harry shot her a reprimanding glare which she pointedly ignored. Instead, Pansy placed a careful arm atop Neville's shoulder and steered him toward the curly-haired figure being spun under the candlelight in the center of the room.

She watched as his pupils dilated in response and nearly smiled genuinely with satisfaction.

_So, he wasn't blind after all,_ she thought.

"I'm sure you are familiar with our beautiful young queen by this time, after all, you've been here for several long days now, Neville. Plenty of time to woo a young woman."

Harry, again, shot her a reproachful glance.

To which she, again, ignored.

Neville stuttered, "I - "

Pansy nodded approvingly, "Oh, yes, I'm quite sure Hermione is absolutely _smitten_ with you."

He blinked, "She… she is?"

Inwardly, Pansy shook her head, but outwardly she nudged him further in her friend's direction. The poor bloke would require every effort on her part if he was going to acquire Hermione's affections. Of course, Pansy believed that love was inconsequential and ultimately improbable for a woman (or a man, because, you know, equality and all that) of noble blood, but her dear friend Hermione – who no doubt was still in denial as to what the responsibilities the Crown truly held – was still hopeful that her future husband would arrive wrapped in a pretty parcel of romance and chivalry.

And so, Pansy gave one final shove to send the wayward lord in the view of the hopelessly romantic queen with the reassurance that he could win her heart should he dare to ask her to simply _dance_ and perhaps – _perhaps _– talk about something (for the love of all things Holy) other than plants.

"You know," Harry said as Hermione took Neville in for her next dance. "You are frightening."

"I'm well aware, Harry."

"Though," he continued as he tilted his head calculatingly to the side, "your method does seem to be successful thus far."

"I'm also well aware of _that, _Harry."

She felt his eyes on her and this time opted to indulge in a playful smirk toward her shadow companion. His eyes narrowed slightly in that way that made her stomach turn at the thought of what was most likely currently on his mind.

The two watched Neville and Hermione intently while exchanging simple pleasantries and returning to a more appropriate public interaction. Pansy was even successful in keeping a stoic expression across her face during the entirety of their conversation, which she deemed a hopeful indication that their relationship (dare she acknowledge that they in fact had one) would remain strictly platonic.

"Absolutely not," she scoffed.

Harry pursed his lips, "I don't believe that."

"Fine then, don't."

He exasperated, "That's not fair, Pansy!"

Still, she shook her head and held her ground.

"No,"

"Yes,"

"No!"

"Yes!"

She fixed her dark eyes on his shining green ones and felt that stirring in her stomach start again. Knowing all too well that revealing this to him would exponentially backfire, she felt the words spilling out of her mouth before she could stop herself and leaned closer to him to softly whisper, "Fine. Yes."

"I knew it," he smiled triumphantly, "I knew you weren't a real lady."

"HENRY POTTER!"

Pansy gaped and tried to resist the urge not to slap him across his arrogant arm but failed.

He gingerly rubbed his bicep as he laughed at her incredulous face, then said, "You know what I meant."

Her arms crossed across her corset as she replied, "Just because I _have_ repeated an outfit," – his increased laughter made her add _once or twice!_ followed by another physical reprimand – "does not mean that I am not a _real lady_."

Though, against her initial embarrassment at admitting such a fact about herself (because she was so careful not to do such frivolous things), Pansy found herself joining in on the laughter.

He shot her a smirk askance before motioning for her to follow him around to edge of the dance floor. To his – and her own – surprise, she followed him.

The two walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes until she stopped abruptly.

"You know," Harry started – with his telltale curious tone that warned her a personal question or statement would be following – "Neville believes the women of Hogwarts to be intimidating."

"That's because he's too afraid to actually interact with any of them, and then when he does, he only talks about plants." She replied.

"I suppose," he mused.

Pansy glanced at him, "What?"

He shrugged, "I have to say, I agree with him."

"Excuse me?" She said several octaves higher than appropriate.

"Oh, come on Pansy, don't act surprised." Harry clasped his hands behind his back as they wandered along the wall of mirrors. "It's not like you have been entirely welcoming to converse with."

"Hey," she recoiled, "I talk to you far more often than I do with any other man for a single woman of my stature, and I have no doubt my mother would collapse if she knew that to be true."

"That's just it, though, you say you talk to me too often and yet I know nothing about you. In fact, that's the first time I believe you've ever revealed something so personal – something about your family."

"Well, that - " Pansy quickly regained her tongue, "That's nonsense. Just because you are so forthcoming with personal information does not mean I have to be. It shouldn't matter."

Harry peered down at her, "It matters to me."

Pansy wanted to continue arguing her case about privacy and the dangers of revealing too much about oneself save for the rumors that cycled viciously around Hogwarts, but instead found herself nearly walking into Hermione.

"Pansy!" She exclaimed with a bright smile. "Harry! Fancy seeing you two together,"

Hermione gave them a suggestive look that implied she was not at all surprised to see them in each other's company at the ball, to which Pansy felt immediately defensive about.

"We are not together," she retorted.

"Hermione," Harry bowed chivalrously and kissed the top of her fingers.

She let him do so, but then pursed her lips, "Normally, I would demand you not treat me so formally, Harry, after how well we've gotten to know each other lately," – Harry shot a look askance to Pansy, whose eyes narrowed – "but Minerva believes I am too generous with informality these days and need to, and I quote," – she lifted a finger in the air and displayed her best imitation of Minerva McGonagall – _establish my dominance in the castle and remind everyone that I am the monarch and should be treated as such_."

Harry chuckled and nodded his understanding, but Pansy tilted her head to the side and eyed the friendly air that so easily materialized between them.

"She's right, you know," she commented.

Hermione looked at her blankly.

"You are Queen, Hermione, you can't just let everyone treat you like a regular person of the commonwealth. It could cause some of the high-ranking nobleman to plot to undermine you in politics,"

"I have no doubt they will do such things regardless of how I act,"

"Still," Pansy insisted, "it would be best if you appeared more authoritative."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, "_Appear _more authoritative? You said it yourself Pans, I'm the Queen, so I don't see why there's any need for me to put on a show of formality for the sake of noblemen's egos. However I decide to present myself is _my _concern."

Harry was clever enough to remain silent on this matter as Pansy and Hermione became more heated in their argument.

"Not when it affects the stability of the kingdom." She said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Hermione's tone was remarkably less amiable than it had ever been when speaking to her friend, in fact, Pansy could not recall a single argument they had ever had that had led to the hidden animosity in her voice when she spoke. While the two had often been more at odd than either of them had been with Daphne, their disagreements were typically more playful.

"Lord Benning?" Pansy prompted. "You practically spanked him over your lap in front of his friends and colleagues."

"It was hardly that terrible, but nonetheless he deserved it." Hermione replied. Her eyes wandered over to a tray of bubbles passing by them and had to politely decline a glass from the server for the sake of sobriety. It would be highly inappropriate for her to become intoxicated at such an important event in front of so many crucial people.

Pansy pointedly took a glass and thanked the server, then raised the glass to her lips and took a long, purposeful sip in front of Hermione. Firstly, because she could, and secondly to prove her point (not simply to be a bitch, thank you very much).

"No champagne, Your Majesty?" She said too sweetly.

Hermione glared at her briefly before regaining her composure, "I know what you're implying and I don't care for it, Lady Parkinson."

"What do you mean?"

"Intoxication and reprimanding are too very different evils and can't possibly be compared when it comes to my image as Queen."

Pansy shrugged, "If you insist."

"Harry, you agree, don't you?" Hermione asked, turning to him sharply.

He jerked suddenly, caught off guard at being dragged into the argument and clearly wanting nothing to do with it. Pansy knew his hesitation in responding was largely due to not furthering the temper of their young queen and close friend.

"I - " He glanced between the two women, "I'd prefer to stay out of this one, thank you."

"See?" Pansy gestured to him with her now half-empty glass, "Even Harry knows your image and how you act can't be sorted into pretty little sections of what counts toward it and what doesn't."

"That's ridiculous," Hermione said.

"What's ridiculous, Hermione, is the fact that you not only managed to offend Lord Benning which hopefully won't result in the starvation of the kingdom, but also managed to offend your suitors by dancing with a complete stranger. And not even a noble one!" She exclaimed.

Hermione scoffed despite her upbringing, then looked over to Harry with pleading eyes.

"You aren't offended that I danced with Cedric, are you?"

He shook his head vigorously, "No, not at all."

Pansy refrained from snorting outright, but fixed Hermione with a look that told her she should know better than to take what she said too literally.

"Not _him_. The other suitors, the ones who actually might end up beside you on the throne." She glanced over to Harry herself, then added, "No offense."

"None taken," he shrugged, eyes wide.

"I danced with Neville," Hermione protested, "Several times, in fact."

"Twice," Pansy corrected. "I was watching."

"Then you saw how positively dreadful it was?"

"It wasn't dreadful! The boy likes you," she replied.

Hermione didn't meet her eyes, instead looking around the room as she muttered, "There's no chemistry, though. No romance."

"Oh, for all things Holy, here we go again!"

Hermione's eyes found hers again and narrowed slightly.

Pansy took the opportunity of her silence to begin another lecture, finding herself more in tune with Minerva's feelings and nerves this week than she'd care to admit.

"Hermione, you can't possibly still think your marriage will be the result of some large romantic gesture and sweeping off of your feet. This is the 15th century! Women aren't allowed such luxuries, not even noblewomen. Not even Queens."

The two stared at each other for several long moments until, finally, Hermione's eyes flitted up to meet Harry's with the same pleading expression she wore minutes ago. Thankfully – for Pansy, at least – Harry was too preoccupied studying the stitching in his coat.

"It's just not fair," Hermione said softly. "Why is it so terrible that I want to actually adore my husband? That I want to love and trust my king with every fiber of my being."

"Because life's not fair." Pansy snapped.

Hermione let out a soft grunt and reached out for the next server passing by then drained her glass emphatically in front of Pansy before stalking off away from the dancefloor.

"Well," Harry said with a cough, "that was lovely."

"Your sarcasm is _much_ appreciated," she drawled.

In response, he only chuckled and muttered something about now she'd know how it felt for him or something or another.

Pansy moved to continue walking around the ballroom and didn't wait for Harry to follow but was pleased when he did, appearing at her side with a wayward grin.

The violinist stood and announced that he would be retiring for a short while and that the crowd should move from the previous fast-paced dances and join the sole pianist in his renditions of slower waltzes.

Harry stopped them and bent forward to present her with a proffered hand, "Would you care to dance with me, Pansy?"

"Would I _care_?" She repeated aghast.

He remained in his vulnerable position and with a soft smile spread across his lips.

"I know you don't, there's no need to broadcast how proud you are, but still I am sure that you will quite enjoy it and so I ask again, would you?"

She denied him the satisfaction of a response but seeing Hermione on the dance floor with a man who was obviously _not_ one of her suitors, Pansy felt no ill-will would come from her sparing _one_ dance with her ever-present admirer.

(Besides, if she was being honest with herself, she admired him a bit as well.)

"Don't you dare step on my toes," she warned.

Harry feigned hurt, "Me? Why would you say such a thing?"

She placed her hands in his and let him lead her into the first few steps of the dance. As she had expected, his dancing skills were as unrefined as the rest of his social manners. After another eight-count Pansy had finally had enough with tirelessly evading his poorly-timed steps and horrific leading skills.

"HENRY!" She bellowed.

He stepped away from her with vehemence. His normally artfully arrogant face contorted with anger and irritation, causing his thick brows to crease his forehead in a deeply unpleasant way.

"What?" He spat.

"For the love of all things Holy, will you _please_ learn how to act like the nobility you claim to be?"

"Why? Am I embarrassing you, _Milady_?"

Pansy tried to fight the grimace that erupted on her face – for the sake of her mother's voice in the back of her head reminding her how hideous wrinkles would be if she dared reveal any emotion with such intensity as she currently displayed – but it was no use. There was something about this wretched boy in front of her that got under her skin, under her very essence.

"Well, you're certainly not _impressing_ me!"

He scoffed, "No, it seems nothing I do will ever please you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Pansy retorted with narrowed eyes.

He raked a hand through his hair – which had previously been miraculously combed into near-perfect neatness and suddenly sprang free into its naturally messy state at the sudden harsh movement – and exhaled loudly.

"It means that I'm not good enough for you! That I'll never been good enough for you. Frankly, I'm not entirely certain that _any man_ would be good enough for you. Precious fucking Pansy Parkinson."

She inhaled sharply at his outburst and his language.

They had moved their screaming match away from the hundreds of eyes that gravitated toward them at the heightened volumes in their voices and the obvious discourse in their stances. Currently, they were walking briskly away from the ballroom by means of a dimly lit hallway.

It was deserted and private, allowing for their impoliteness to continue uninterrupted.

"You don't have any idea what I'm dealing with, so don't you dare, for one second, act like you do. You don't know anything about me, Harry."

"Because you won't let me! You don't let anybody in, do you?"

"That's not true." She protested, suddenly defensive.

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes,"

He shook his head in disbelief, his voice still octaves above a respectable speaking volume.

"Name one person - "

She cut him off with, "Hermione, Daphne - "

"No," his glared at her, "Aside from them."

"Why? Why should I have to? Just to prove some stupid point of yours?"

"Because, for one, I'm not sure I believe that you are entirely honest with yourself, much less with them or anyone else. Which _is_ my so-called stupid point. You don't let anyone in."

She threw her hands up in the air, "Why do you care?"

"Because I want to you to let me in, Pansy!"

His breathing was heavy and ragged; hers was a mirror image.

Neither spoke for several seconds, then suddenly his arms were around her and her breath between his lips.

He pushed her back until her spine collided with the stone wall behind her, and his fingers tangled in her raven hair, pulling it loose from its pins and letting it fall over her bare shoulders.

Her own hands found themselves at the buttons of his outer coat, hastily unfastening them and placing her palms against the silk vest beneath it. She could feel his chest expand and collapse with every deep breath he took and felt a deep, burning urge to want to feel his skin against hers. To feel nothing in between them.

In the back of her mind she briefly heard her mother again, reminding her what a delicate flower her virginity was and how it must be protected at all costs for once it was ruined there would be absolutely no revival.

But the pinch of her bottom lip between his teeth cast that voice aside for one emanating much deeper within her core. A voice of hunger, passion, and need.

A voice without reason.

A voice to which she could not refuse.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked.

Pansy yanked his hand harder, scared that if she didn't make it the room quick enough, the logical part of her brain would suddenly override the part that was currently in charge and cause her to face the reality of what she was about to do.

"Your chambers," she answered.

"My…" He sputtered. "How do you know where my chambers are?"

She scoffed, glancing back to shoot him a haughty grin. "Please, Harry, don't be daft. I know where everyone in this castle resides, it's my job."

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but Pansy was too preoccupied with not getting caught entering his chambers with him to focus on whatever he was saying.

Once safely in the room, she slammed the heavy wooden door shut with a deafening thud and leaned back on it, both out of breath from their run and from the butterflies forming in the pit of her stomach.

Harry was looking at her the way he usually did, with a charismatic stance and a charmingly lopsided grin. Except, his eyes weren't glittering with their usual playfulness. Instead, they were the darkest shade of green she'd ever seen and were focused on her with such want and desire her knees nearly gave out beneath her.

. . .

_22 September 1455_

_10:12 pm_

The light of the hundreds of crystal elaborate chandeliers caused the massive room to bake in a hazy, golden glow. The rich colors of the thick, expensive fabrics of the nobility spun around as the men and women wearing them twirled and danced across the pristine marble floor.

Brilliant shades of red, indigo, violet and all other colors of the rainbow enveloped Daphne and caused her head to suddenly spin.

She quickly moved to the nearest wall of the room and steadied herself against one of the meter-tall golden figurines holding a bouquet of white roses in a crystal vase.

The wall was lined with mirrors that stretched all the way up to the ceiling and were separated in equal segments by ornate gold frames. Her reflection presented her with the simple fact of her beauty that she imagined every other potential husband had been enchanted by, and while she was happy that she at least had that going for her, Daphne wanted to actually have depth in her future marriage and hoped her future husband was able to see more to her than the mirror reflected.

Golden loose waves fell past her collarbones and framed her heart-shaped face with the most pleasing angles. Light widened green eyes stared back at her with a mix of shock and intrigue as she noticed her normally porcelain skin emanating a soft, warm glow. The new color suited her, she thought, especially with the dusty rose lace gown and modest sweetheart neckline.

"Miss Greengrass,"

Daphne turned to see the very man she was afraid that she'd correctly identified earlier that evening when he took Hermione's hand and twirled her before the crowd.

"Mr Diggory," she breathed.

Even though she was a Queen's lady, Daphne knew she still owed the man a curtsy fit of his title (and lack of hers).

"Please," he smiled and returned (unnecessarily) her gesture with a bow of his own, "call me Cedric."

"Cedric," she repeated with heat rising to her cheeks.

Daphne internally panicked and wondered how Pansy had managed to always be so cool and collected around handsome and intimidating men. Though, to be fair, Pans never had to worry about her stature around such prospects.

Especially one without a title.

"Oh," she said softly, "you may call me Daphne."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful lady."

She felt her cheeks heat up again and willed her nerves to go elsewhere and not ruin this moment for her.

"Are you feeling alright?" Cedric pressed. "I saw you leave the dance floor rather hastily and worried you fell ill as you did earlier."

"No," she assured him, "I'm perfectly well, thank you."

A silence fell between them before she caught onto something that he had said.

"You saw me leave the dance floor?"

"Yes, I'd been watching you."

"Wh – What? Why?"

He shrugged, then lowered his gaze to the floor.

"I find you very beautiful, sweet Daphne, it's hard not to watch you." Cedric finally offered.

"Oh,"

Daphne tried to hide her disappointment at his reason for observing her.

"Did I offend you?"

She forced a smile across her lips, "Not at all, Cedric. You are very kind."

He could sense the uneasiness in her voice and decided to venture out on a whim as to what might be bothering her, "Is it because I said I watched you because you are beautiful? Did that make you uncomfortable?"

"I'm flattered, really." She insisted.

"But you aren't pleased."

At this, Daphne remained silent, which seemed to prove his theory correct.

"You would rather me say I am interested in you because of your personality or your character, correct?"

His amber eyes bore into hers with such intensity that she felt the need to blurt out the first thought that crossed her mind.

"Yes, but perhaps that is because I am a hopeless romantic."

"You are more than just beautiful, sweet Daphne." He said.

This time, her smile was genuine.

"Thank you, _Mr Diggory_," she said playfully.

"You are very welcome, _Miss Greengrass_," Cedric replied with a small smirk.

"I am glad to have seen you here," Daphne admitted.

He nodded, "I feel the same way. The moment we separated this morning I felt something inside me dampen but being back in your presence now has made it all better. I am truly grateful for another chance to get to know you."

Daphne blushed and took his offer of a dance, then followed him back into the swirling vibrant colors feeling no threat of illness as her attention never wavered from his sharp amber eyes.

. . .

_22 September 1455_

_10:47 pm_

There was something about her.

She stole the room.

Draco knew it was largely due to the fact that she was a queen, but he wanted to believe there was something else, something inherently wonderful about her that drew everyone's attention toward her aside from her lineage.

He'd barely made it into the ballroom before the trumpets sounded and she emerged at the top of the staircase. Due to his poor arrival timing – and the fact that to anyone in this castle (re: this world) he was decidedly _not_ an important figure in society – Draco had to crane his neck above the impossibly heavy crowd in order to get a glimpse of her as she strode confidently down the aisle toward her throne.

But a glimpse was all he needed.

He was already dangerously hooked from their intimate moments in the library just hours ago, but the way she carried herself did it in for him. It was one thing to fall for a beautiful woman (just ask Theo), but to fall for one so clever was an entirely different affliction.

The more learned about Hermione, the more he loved.

Her near-ruthless lecture to the nobleman nearly caused him to spill the wine he was drinking; as it was, Draco's only real experience among kings and queens were with his parents and their method for dealing with disrespect were far more lethal. Perhaps _he_ had a lot to learn from her politically as well.

Then, much to his dismay, she'd moved on to the dancing portion of tonight's celebration and he found himself unable to intoxicate himself enough to want to witness other (attractive, he wouldn't lie to himself about that fact) men dance with her.

However, on his search for some much-needed fresh air, Draco was approached by a dark figure with a prominent scowl and a crooked nose.

"You must be the dirty village boy that our young queen is so foolishly fond of," he drawled.

Draco blinked a few times before fully registering what the man was saying to him. At first, he wanted to be insulted by the assumption that just because the castle's occupants had painted him to be less than nobility it implied that he was also _dirty_, but then he realized that the man also implied that Hermione was _fond_ of him.

He nodded and gestured for the man to continue.

"I see you're going to keep going on with that idiotic ruse of your inability to speak," the man huffed. "Very well, but just know that your little tricks won't… work… on… me."

The very last words with emphasized and elongated for what Draco could only assume to be intimidation tactics. While the ever-present look of deep disapproval did set off a deeply instilled fear of his stemming from one his father often gave him before he raised his wand, the man's words did nothing to scare Draco into submission.

He arched a brow in defiance, but then nodded his understanding in hopes that the man would leave him alone.

"The Queen asks that I teach you potions and lecture you on alchemical history, but she also mentioned that you have specific interest in The Philosopher's Stone."

Draco resisted swallowing the pit that formed in the back of his throat.

"I suggest you keep your insufferable nose out of places it doesn't belong and crawl back into whichever dirty little hole you crawled out of because mark my words, stupid boy, if you so much as look behind a painting in search for the Stone, I will personally have you thrown in the dungeons and then drawn and quartered before a pretty little hair on the top of your _thick head_ falls out of place. Understand?"

Surprisingly, since Draco had become mute at the hands of Riddle and Quirrell, there were very few times with which he wished more than anything that he could say something. One – predictably – had been when he first encountered Hermione in the infirmary. The next, when Finn and Jack had done such a poor job dressing him in his formal clothes for the ball that he had to quickly redress himself before meeting his escort at the bottom of the Grand Staircase. Finally, there was this current moment.

Draco wanted nothing more than to inform Grand Master Snape – as he had deduced from his talk of potions and Hermione's earlier mention of him in the library – that he was _already_ living in the dungeons and therefore the threat was as mute as he currently was.

However, he would have to settle for furrowed brows and a scowl of his own. Neither of them bowed at the end of their conversation (if you could even call it that) nor bid farewell. Instead, Snape strode off in his usual haughty fashion while Draco opted for storming out through the French doors that lead out to the castle grounds.

Well, he _thought_ they lead out to the castle grounds.

Instead, Draco ended up on some high-rise balcony that overlooked the gardens below.

The odd-shaped hedges were immediately familiar to him and after squinting at the dark greenery for several minutes, it finally occurred to Draco as to why. These were the very same gardens he had watched over the past several years from his hidden place on the elevated boulder.

He took a moment to gather his position and then directed himself toward what would be the boulder if he were able to see it from such a distance in the dark and starry night. With a raised glass in his hand, he silently thanked Theo and Blaise before taking a long sip of the burning liquid.

"How come whenever I want to disappear in my favorite hiding places, I tend to find you already settled there?"

Draco's head spun around, and his dark grey eyes fixated on her soft brown ones.

He gave her a small, teasingly apologetic smile and a polite bow.

Hermione picked up the beautiful periwinkle material of her dress as she crossed the stone floor toward where Draco stood. She hid the blush that rose to her cheeks as his eyes followed her and opted to play with the rings on her fingers when she finally arrived next to him.

Though, after a moment, she realized that if she wanted to hold any hopes of a conversation with him, that she would have to not only do all of the talking, but also attempt to interpret what he would say in return if he could.

"Did you have a good time at the ball?"

He nodded his head back and forth, relaying that it had been a mediocre experience, but then decided to be a bit bolder and took part of the material of her dress in his hand, toying with it. He ran the tulle between his fingers before letting his eyes settle back on hers with a warm smile.

"Thank you," she murmured, unable to raise her voice more than a whisper with their proximity and his gentle touch.

Every time he touched her, she felt electricity course through her veins and her brain simply shut off.

She had the same effect on him.

Draco reminded himself that muggle customs were slightly outdated and that he'd have to refrain from too much physical contact unless he really did want to end up drawn and quartered for assaulting the queen.

Besides, the less physical contact he had with her the less intense the desire to push their intimacy further would be.

_Fuck, who am I kidding_, he swore internally.

With a deep sigh, he leaned forward to rest his forearms on the cold stone of the balcony and craned his neck upwards at the sky.

When Draco was a young boy, he often spent a lot of time lying on his back in the wet grass or balancing on a hard broom as he studied the stars above. Astronomy was one of his favorite subjects to learn about – given his mother's family lineage it was only natural – and by the age of twelve he could name every bright star, every constellation, and every planet that crossed the night sky.

Sometimes, he tested himself with how quickly he could locate the North star or the very constellation he was named after.

Tonight (especially since at the moment his mind needed something other than Hermione's lips to focus on) it only took him thirty-seven seconds.

"You know," Hermione said. "Everyone warns me to stay away from you."

He arched a quizzical brow.

"They think you're just some peasant boy who will ruin my reputation," she continued.

Draco rolled his eyes and she laughed.

"I know it's complete rubbish. In the last few hours I've come to trust you more than I would trust half my council members," she shook her head. "The miserable half, that is."

He felt his lips pull to one side in a crooked smile and took another sip of his wine.

"I feel awful though," Hermione stated.

Again, Draco raise a brow.

"I don't believe that you'll ruin my reputation, of course, but I also don't believe you're just some village boy. I mean, for one, you're a scholar. That option might be available to those without titles who come from wealthy families or have exquisite connections, perhaps, but it doesn't explain another observation of mine. That, secondly, you're much too refined and respectable to be some average village boy."

Draco simply stared back at her, careful to hide any emotion from his face, and waited for her to take back up her analysis of his stature in society. The way she talked about it was amusing; her tone mimicked that of a mathematician on the brink of solving a proof.

"It's just… well the way you hold yourself," she gestured to his stance which, admittedly, was rather proper, "I know that we provided you with your formal attire, but it's just odd… most commoners would itch or marvel at the rich material while you… you wear them as if you've been wearing clothes that fine your whole life."

Which he had.

She had a very, very fair point.

Draco took another sip of his wine before putting the empty glass down and fixing her with a wicked grin; it was impossible to hide his reaction to her clever insights.

_She would make a brilliant queen_, he thought.

"Anyway," she huffed. "I feel most terrible because everyone refers to you as _the village boy_ or some equivalent of it, when in fact I'm almost certain that you're not."

Hermione's eyes sparkled in the moonlight as they searched his face.

"I wish I knew your name," she lamented.

Draco could sense the melancholy this admission brought her and wished there was something he could do in the moment to cure it.

Except, there was something he could do about it.

He stood erect and flashed a brilliant smile at her, teeth and all, which prompted her to recoil with a chuckle at his sudden outburst.

"What is it?"

He pointed up at the sky.

She glanced upward, then back down at him, "I don't understand."

Draco placed his palms on his chest emphatically before pointing upward again.

"You… like the sky?"

He huffed, then moved to stand cautiously behind her so that he could better angle her toward _exactly _what he was indicating.

Hopefully, she was just as gifted as he was in astronomy; though judging from her intellect and knowledge on the outdated subjects earlier that day, he imagined she'd have no struggle catching on.

Draco first pointed at the bottom of the constellation, then directed his finger along the rest of the stars that made up its path before bringing her attention back to him and gesturing at his chest again.

"The stars?" Hermione's brows furrowed and Draco could tell she was trying her best to unravel his silent riddle. "You study astronomy, too? Because we have another Master here that would be more helpful - "

Draco shook his head violently, then repeated the series of actions again.

_Come on, Hermione, I know of all people you can solve this._

When he finished outlining the stars, she gasped.

"The constellation! You like the constellation… oh, what was its name…Draco!"

His emotions got the better of him when he finally heard his name slip out of her rosy lips which made his smile broaden immensely. He nodded vigorously, then gestured to himself again.

"Draco?"

He took her hands in his and nodded along, _Yes, yes, you've got it!_

"Oh!" Her grip tightened on his and she spoke more confidently, "Your _name_ is Draco? Isn't it?"

The tension that had built up in his shoulders released. He felt himself fall from his heightened state of emotion into a more acceptable, social level of happiness.

"That's…" Hermione cleared her throat, then dropped her head with the (failed) attempt to hide her blush, "That's a very handsome name."

He bowed his head appreciatively, _Thank you._

"Hermione," a gruff voice said after a polite cough.

She turned away from Draco and dropped her hands in a guilty haste, then smoothed down her corset, which he knew was an anxious habit of hers rather than an appearance correction.

"Dean," she greeted.

"It's late, you should retire soon."

"Is the ball still underway?"

He shook his head, "No, ma'am, everyone vacated the moment it was realized that you had left. Truth be told, it took Roger and I a moment to find you. Our apologies, we should have done our job better."

Draco watched as the young man – Dean – hung his head and waited for Hermione to respond.

She sighed, "Dean, please don't call me ma'am. I've only just turned eighteen, for heaven's sake. Don't beat yourself up about losing me, either. There are a thousand guards here tonight and I purposely weaved my way through them, including yourself and Roger."

Draco noticed that while it was incredibly kind of her not to reprimand her guard, she also hadn't apologized for her escape from the ball.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Dean," she groaned. "Come on!"

This time, Dean picked his head up and managed to bring a small smile across his lips.

"Of course, thank you, _Hermione_."

She shook her head playfully, "Much better. You'd think after doing this for a year that I would have finally broken that habit of yours, but as it turns out that's not the case. Nevertheless, I will continue on with my tireless crusade."

He nodded before exiting back through the French-style doors that lead into the ballroom.

"Well," she faced Draco. "Walk me back, Draco?"

He held out his arm for her to take, which she did with a soft smile on her face, leaning into him marginally more than what was acceptable for a queen who was not leaning on her husband.

She led him through the castle with Dean and Roger in tow.

"You know," she started. "I appreciate your company, Draco. I feel like I can truly speak my mind around you."

Draco indulged in her statement by raising his brows and discreetly nodding toward the two guards that followed closely behind them.

"It's not that I don't trust them, but rather that they would put their concern for me above all else and while there are times when I do need that, there are also times when I need to vent my emotions or concerns without fear of endangering my authority."

At this, he cocked his head to the side.

"I suppose it might not make that much sense to you," she sighed, paused, then continued with "I can't be alone with all that's on my mind. Last time I was this stressed, I was thinking out loud to Dean and Pansy and, no less than a few hours later, Minerva had me on bed rest with no contact with anyone."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes, then covered a muffled laugh before meeting his eyes again.

"I find that I am able to be very unladylike in your presence and I'm not entirely certain if that's wise for me to do, but I do enjoy not having to hide something as simple as facial expressions."

Draco nodded his understanding and ducked his head solemnly before dragging his pinched fingers across his lips and imitating the disposal of a key.

"Again, I am very grateful for your ear, Draco. Pansy and I had a bit of a row earlier and I would appreciate having someone I can vent to that won't go running off and get me quarantined for hysteria."

He watched as she focused on the corridor ahead of them with such intensity; he imagined she was spiraling deep into her own thoughts. The very ones she told him she did not want to be alone with.

He softly nudged her – softly because he was a tiny bit afraid that he might get physically assaulted by Dean or Roger for treason or the like – and narrowed his grey eyes at her.

She met his gaze and nodded appreciatively, "Thank you, Draco. Well, where do I start?"

And so, Hermione told him about her argument with Pansy and her concern for her reign. He listened intently, silently prompting her to continue or explain a particular part of the conversation when necessary, and eventually she felt a pressure – a weight – lift from her shoulders.

"There is just so much wrong going on outside these walls," she mused, "and while I wish I could conquer it all within my reign, every day it seems more and more impossible."

He nodded because he truly understood what she meant, from one royal to another, but, of course, she would never know as much. At least, not that night.

"Do you have any plans tomorrow, Draco?" She chimed.

A brilliant smirk formed at the corners of his mouth.

"Lovely, I'll show you around the castle a bit then."

They arrived at the top of the staircase where Hermione turned to him with an audible sigh.

"I'm afraid I must walk the rest of the way to my chambers without company," she lamented.

Draco's eyes flickered to her guards before nodding his understanding once more. He was growing very tired of not being able to open up to her, but the fact that she'd been able to learn his name provided him with the feeble hope that perhaps they would again make progress and be able to connect more in the future. As it was, the spark – the undeniable fact that they were meant to be – was there. It was only a matter of time before he would uncover the whereabouts of The Philosopher's Stone and not only would he regain his voice, but he would also be able to join her muggle world permanently, however she would have him.

Oh, yes, Draco was very aware that in doing so he would most likely (re: definitely) have to abdicate his position as heir to the magical throne, but just one look at her and he felt willing to give up much, much more than that.

On his cold, quiet walk back down the staircase and into his room in the dungeons, Draco lifted his left sleeve to assess the progression of the ink and the countdown to the end of his time-sensitive task.

He nearly tripped and fell head first onto the stone at his feet when he saw just how much the damned snake had moved; it's body had already met and turned at his wrist and was currently coiling in on itself as it wound its way back down toward his wrist again.

_How many times would it turn before it was complete? What would happen when it was complete?_

Draco's head spun with endless questions and possibilities all of which he knew he would never find the answer to until it was irreparable.

He fell unceremoniously onto his bed and stared at the glowing green light while his thoughts jumped from concern for his own soul in regard to his daunting task to anger and frustration at the realization that his chance to share a life with Hermione was even more impossible.

. . .

**A/N - **A bit longer of a chapter and I'm swear I'm not trying to make them so long but I can't help how verbose I get when I get into it. This was one of my favorite chapters to write (I'm pretty sure I said this last time too, but whatever, shoot me) and I hope you all enjoyed it! Special thanks to those of you who fav, follow and especially review, I truly adore each and every one of you! xx


	5. The Sin

. . .

_**Chapter 5 – The Sin **_

. . .

_23 September 1455_

_8:53 am_

Hermione had spent most of the night deep in her thoughts, anxious for what her future held. She lay awake staring at the paintings across the ceiling in her bedchambers and wondered if her mother ever did the same during her time in the bed. It was a bit odd, living in a space that had once belonged to her, and she'd secretly hoped it would reveal more about the woman she desperately wished she knew. So far, no such luck. None of her mother's personal belongings were left in the room, after all, and while she could certainly command the servants to find them and bring them up for her viewing, she knew deep down it would make no difference. It would not change the fact that Hermione simply did not know what kind of woman – or Queen – her mother had been.

The floral designs surrounding the angel in the center of the ceiling did little to help ease her late-night ponderings. The angelic woman, draped in gold robes and wreathes, seemed to peer down at her the same way Pansy so often did.

"Please," she'd said aloud in the early hours of the morning, "don't you lecture me, too."

Eventually, Hermione had woken to early morning light and the soft knocking of her dresser maids coming to help prepare her for breakfast and the morning mass following.

Hermione knew better than to expect an apology from Pansy, and so, when she escorted her from her bedchambers to the dining room for breakfast only commenting on how horrible a particular daughter of a lord looked in her gown or on how intoxicated and inappropriate a member of Hermione's larger council had been acting, she had assumed their friendship had returned back to normal.

"Did you _see_ what Hannah Abbott wore?" Pansy trilled as they came up to Daphne waiting outside of the dining hall entrance for them, "I mean _oof_."

"Pans," Daphne scolded. "You've got to watch your tongue around the staff. They have ears, you know."

She arched a brow at a young maiden who moved to pull out the chairs for them to sit, then glanced back at Daphne with a sickly-sweet smile.

"Oh, I know. And while I do make an effort to appear more endearing in public, I can't help but indulge myself in my bad habits when in private. Besides," she plucked a grape from its vine. "Her Grace's staff know better than to spread ill-fitted rumors about her ladies."

Daphne sighed, "But what if… well… you know how terrible talk in this castle can be."

"Right, and that's why I would never divulge any information about myself that would be even slightly incriminating."

"Weren't you _just_ gossiping about Hannah Abbott?" Hermione cut in.

"Oh, that's nothing. Hardly even considered gossip if it's true, don't you think?"

Hermione shook her head, hiding an amused smile, "You're incorrigible."

"Let's not talk about Hannah Abbott, anymore," Daphne pleaded.

"You're right," Pansy commented – earning a skeptical glance from both Hermione and Daphne – "Let's discuss how your evening was, Daph."

Hermione, thankfully already haven suffered the receiving end of Pansy's opinions of her own behavior the night before, sat back with her tea and watched as Daphne squirmed under the knowing gaze of Pansy.

"So," she began, "Cedric Diggory, hm?"

Daphne played with a biscuit, dunking it in and out of her tea until it had dissolved beyond appetizing consistency, then shrugged.

"What of it?"

"He's handsome, isn't he?" Pansy taunted.

"I suppose so," Daphne replied.

"_I suppose so,_" Hermione repeated with a scoff. "He's gorgeous, Daph, there's no need to play it off so casually."

"Yes, fine." She said.

Pansy lifted her brows pointedly, "He's not a lord."

"No," Daphne lamented, "But he's _so_ nice."

"Nice doesn't help your social ranking,"

"Pans," Hermione chastised.

Pansy waved a hand, "Hermione, dear, you hardly have any say in this matter, I'm afraid. After all, you're as high as one can socially climb and that's even _without_ having to marry." She turned back to Daphne – who was now aimlessly fixing the towel in her lap – "Daph, you have to think about this."

"I'm just so tired of having to find a suitable husband," she sighed. "Can't I just marry whomever I like and call it a day? I don't care for all of the finery that comes with being a lady."

"No, you might not care, but Astoria will." Pansy pointed out.

At that, Hermione could not argue. Her and Daphne exchanged a sad glance, both knowing Pansy's point was all too valid. Astoria Greengrass had the taste of a young royal and would need to marry well above her stature in order to fulfill that need (or void, depending on how psychologically intuitive one was).

"Fine," Daphne lamented.

"It wouldn't hurt to continue to court him, would it?" Hermione asked innocently.

"It would, I'm afraid." Daphne sighed.

"Well," Pansy contemplated, "Maybe it wouldn't hurt to court him."

"Didn't you just say - "

"Oh, don't marry him, by any means. Certainly, don't get too familiar with him unless you want your reputation tainted beyond repair." She amended.

"So, what?" Daphne speculated with an exasperated sigh. "Am I supposed to just use Cedric as bait and flaunt him before the noblemen in the hopes that one of them will see their precious golden flower may be wed soon enough if they don't intervene?"

"Precisely."

She nodded her affirmation before selecting another piece of fruit with a triumphant grin.

Daphne scoffed in disbelief at Pansy's cruel understanding of the intricate social engagements of noble men and women while Hermione attempted to hide her mirth behind a napkin to her lips.

The three of them finished breakfast and waited for Dean and Roger to arrive – along with Seamus who suspiciously smelled of smoke – before they left the hall and made their way through the castle grounds toward the Royal Chapel.

The Royal Chapel was tucked deep in the center of the castle grounds, but the light shone through effortlessly because while it may have been encompassed by brick and stone from all angles, its immediate surroundings on the ground level were of beautifully manicured courtyards and gardens. It was a pleasant sight so early in the morning after a late night with very little sleep.

"_Oh,_" Pansy groaned audibly as she sat beside Hermione on the first pew. "I am _so_ not in the mood for church this morning,"

Daphne was staring off at the brightly tinted glass which prompted Hermione to speak up and indulge in Pansy's dramatics.

"Why aren't you in the mood for church?"

Pansy glanced at her and for a solid moment Hermione was afraid that her cold attitude from last evening would return, but instead she offered her a nonchalant shrug.

"Is anyone ever really in the mood for church?" Pansy countered.

"It seems Daph is,"

Hermione nodded to her left where Daphne sat, still staring through the maiden-decorated glass window.

"What's wrong with her?" Pansy's nose scrunched. "Was it what I said about Diggory?"

She sighed in response, shaking her head, "No idea. I hope not, though."

Though, that didn't seem to satisfy Pansy, and so when she reached over Hermione to flick Daphne in her perfectly curved nose, Hermione couldn't resist holding back her laughter and shoving an accusatory finger toward Pansy when Daphne yelped and spun toward them with eyes blazing.

"Wasn't me," she quipped.

"Thanks for that," Pansy retorted, then turned her narrowed gaze on Daphne, "What's wrong with you? You've been acting weird since I brought up the whole courting scheme."

"I haven't been weird," she insisted.

"No, it's true. You've been weird." Hermione said.

Daphne pursed her lips and picked at a frayed piece of thread on her headscarf. She opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by the start of the sermon.

Pansy sat back reluctantly and the three of them directed their attention toward Father Flitwick.

Hermione found herself unable to keep focus that morning – typically she payed careful attention seeing as she was the head of the church and needed to be a perfect representation of its ideals no matter how deeply she may question them at times – as he went on to talk about the sins of temptation and the value of patience. Good things come to those who wait and all that.

She did notice Pansy seemed restless; her hips, ankles, and knees were incapable of remaining still throughout the entire lecture. If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd say Father Flitwick's words were upsetting her more than they usually did, which was a bit odd.

On their way out of the chapel and into the crisp morning air – taking advantage of their priority exit due to Hermione's status as monarch – she quickly whispered to Pansy under her breath before any other churchgoers could follow them out and possibly eavesdrop.

"What's the matter with you?" She tugged Daphne aside as well, "_and you_,"

Pansy frowned, "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, don't play stupid with me. Something is up with both of you."

"Nothing's up," she retorted.

"Right," Daphne chimed in.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at both of them but having at least somewhat of a clue as to what was bothering Pansy, decided to single her out.

"You couldn't sit still the entire time we were in there, like you were uncomfortable or something."

She shrugged, "Perhaps I simply had to use the toilet and had a hard time holding it."

"Yeah, ok," she scoffed. "So, it had nothing to do with Father Flitwick's verse on temptation and the sacred oath of one's virginity?"

At that, Daphne's head snapped up at the same time Pansy gasped.

"No!"

"Hmm," Hermione grunted.

"You _do_ have a rather strong opinion on that subject," Daphne commented.

Pansy crossed her arms, "Just because I believe women shouldn't have to _hold onto their virtue for dear life_ like men don't, does _not_ mean that I did anything!"

Hermione exchanged a wary glance with Daphne.

"We didn't say anything about _that_, but Pans, you know you can talk - "

"Forget it," Pansy interrupted. "I disagree with his teachings that's all."

"You disagree with the religion." Hermione corrected with a raised brow.

"Hush!"

"Pans, it's not smart to let your opinions, especially those opposing the very church Hermione is head of, be heard by those who can't be trusted." Daphne said.

"I trust you both,"

Hermione nodded her head subtly, "She didn't mean us."

Pansy's face scrunched up slightly before relaxing as she spun to face whomever Hermione and Daphne had been referring to. A swear slipped from between her lips as he approached the group of women.

"Good morning, ladies," Harry greeted happily.

"Morning," Daphne and Hermione replied with bright smiles.

"I didn't see you at the service this morning," Pansy commented.

He shrugged, "I didn't want to impose. Let's just say I don't always agree with the teachings and didn't want to be… a distraction."

His eyes lingered heavily on Pansy, Hermione noticed, and wondered if there was anything she could do to help Harry with his mission to win her affections.

"I hope you don't mind." He continued. "I was wondering if I could steal Pansy away for a moment?"

Hermione understood the proposition and offered an encouraging nod, but Pansy stepped back as Harry reached out to put a hand on the small of her back to lead her away.

"In fact, I _do_ mind!" She protested. "I have very many things to do today in preparation for the evening's events and absolutely no time to indulge you in private conversation."

"Oh, Pans," Hermione huffed. "You don't have to do anything for hours."

"That's not true, I have loads to do."

"Then I'm sure he would love to help. Wouldn't you, Harry?"

His lips turned upwards into his characteristic smirk, "Of course,"

"Then that's settled."

Hermione waved the two of them away and turned to Daphne with a mischievous smile. She was sure her efforts in steering Pansy toward her admirer would soon pay off.

"Can you believe he didn't go to the service?" Daphne whispered as they walked through the gardens.

Hermione shrugged, "It was certainly bold, but I've accepted the fact that he's not really a suitor of mine anymore, so it's not like I can expect him to go."

"That's true I suppose. You know," she went on, "I didn't see your handsome stranger there."

Hermione fought the heat that instantly rose to her cheeks at any mention of Draco.

"No. I didn't, either."

Dean and Roger were already ten paces in front of Hermione and Daphne, ready to open the heavy door that lead back into the dark hallways of the castle, when she turned back to see if Pansy would be joining them. Instead, Hermione caught a glimpse of her favorite silvery head of hair on the opposite end of the gardens. Unfortunately, she also saw the shrewd-eyed, grey-haired figure of Minerva heading towards her.

She silently swore, knowing full well that it would take a clever maneuver on her part to make it over to Draco without Minerva noticing or pinning her down and demanding she spend more time around Neville – he was lovely, really, but no man would be able to cause her blood to rush and her stomach to knot more than the one waiting for her on the other side of the garden.

Daphne noticed her hesitation to enter the hallway and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Do you want me to prepare some tea for you?" She asked.

But, of course, Daphne really wasn't offering to make Hermione tea. It was another one of their code words. What she was really asking was, _Do you want me to cover for you?_

"Yes, please, Daph."

Her friend nodded, "How many sugar cubes?" _For how long?_

A ghost of a smile, "All of them?"

Daphne laughed melodiously.

"It probably won't taste very good after two sugar cubes, Hermione."

She nodded, "Very well, I'll take what I can get."

Hermione motioned for Dean and Roger to wait beside her as Daphne moved across the lawn to distract Minerva, then picked up her skirts and walked as fast as she could – given her limitations in public – through the hedges and flower bushes.

"Hello," she breathed as she arrived in front of him.

He swept a hand through his silvery hair, then beamed at her and gestured for them to walk into the castle and away from the preening eyes of the chapel courtyard.

She had at least two hours – before Minerva would no doubt hunt her down – and she planned on making the most of every minute.

. . .

_23 September 1455_

_4:21 pm _

The afternoon light shone through the large, open windows of the Queen's bedchambers and reflected off the diamonds embedded in the crown on Hermione's head. Her rambunctious curls were behaving even more terribly than usual, frustrating her handmaids to no end (Pansy and Daphne were not present which was a bit odd, though she decided not to acknowledge it lest Minerva thought it was inappropriate and thus reprimandable).

"Minerva," Hermione said through gritted teeth as her friends wrangled her curls into stiff, pinned positions.

"Yes, dear," she replied from her position by the open window.

"Can you arrange for another small council meeting tomorrow?"

Hermione met her eyes from the reflection of the vanity mirror.

"You have a scheduled council meeting already, Hermione." She reminded her.

"Yes, with the regular council, but I'd like to meet with…" she paused purposefully, unable to articulate her wish to meet in the Chamber of Secrets, "… you know."

Minerva nodded. "Very well. I'll reach out to Grand Master Snape this evening, when I see him at the festivities."

"He'll be there?" She inquired doubtfully.

Her advisor pursed her lips, "Contrary to what Grand Master Snape believes, he _does_ have to make an appearance at this week's events. He is your Hand, after all."

Hermione stood once her hair was done and let one handmaid drape a heavy velvet coat over her navy satin gown. Tonight, unlike the nice weather they'd been having earlier in the week, would be cold and windy, thus requiring extra layers for comfort.

Outside, in the far courtyard that opened into a large lawn and further down into the Black Lake – aptly named for its dark, mysterious color (It was rumored to have monsters sent from the devil himself to prey upon any humans stupid enough to slip below its surface. But, of course, those were merely old tales passed on from generations ago which didn't stop anyone from sailing across the vast lake.) – Hermione stepped up onto a platform and looked over the crowd before her. Just days ago, she had addressed them for the Harvest Festival but now she stood before them for another annual festivity that happened to fall on her birth-week celebrations.

Minerva claimed it was a good excuse as any to go all out with décor and showcase the castle's wealth – Hermione's financial security as the new monarch – while keeping with rituals put in place centuries ago and not letting her celebratory week as Queen disrupt tradition for the sake of sovereignty.

While Minerva still dressed up the courtyard and lawn with decorations and activities to keep the guests entertained, Hermione made a mental note to formally address the reason they still gathered annually for this occasion. She kept her speech short and to the point, only pausing for a moment of silence for the victims. Tonight's festivity was less about extravagance and more about remembrance. It was to honor the fallen soldiers of the Battle of Black Lake during the Wizard War.

"Thank you," she concluded with a tight smile to the onlooking crowd of subjects as she stepped down and into the courtyard.

It was custom to greet anyone who wanted to come up and speak to her individually.

Her voice was so course after talking for hours that she had to excuse herself from the remainders of guests waiting to speak to their queen and wander away through the courtyard in search of water.

There were tables and tables of crafts, food, and drink for all. But for some unfathomable reason, Hermione couldn't find any water.

Frustrated, she turned to Roger, "Would you track down one of the kitchen maids and ask her to set up a pitcher of water?"

"Of course, Your Highness," he replied, then disappeared through the crowd.

She shook her head at Dean, who remained at her side, "You two will never learn, will you?"

He offered a lopsided grin, "Oh, we learn, but we choose not to listen."

She arched a playful brow, "So, you admit to defying direct orders of your queen, then?"

"I suppose so," he laughed.

Hermione decided her throat ached too much to wait for Roger to return with water and begrudgingly picked up a goblet of wine and left the tent in search of her friends. She saw Pansy and Harry standing just beside the table where the lanterns were set up and headed in their direction, catching part of their conversation.

"Henry, I swear, I'm going to chain you to a pipe if you don't stop following me around."

"Promise?" He smirked.

"Ugh!" She groaned. "You're impossible,"

Hermione smiled into her glass and took a sip before speaking up as she approached them, "Everything alright with you two?"

Pansy's raven hair, loose and hanging over her shoulders with sparkling beads scattered throughout it, whipped around and barely missed hitting Harry in the face with how close they'd been standing. She sprung apart from him and enveloped Hermione in a hug, which was a bit out of character, but her wide eyes gave Hermione the impression she had been grateful to see her.

"Hi, Pans," she chuckled as the girl let her go.

"Oh, thank goodness, I've been looking for you all day! Where on earth have you been?"

"Daph didn't talk to you?"

She blinked, "I haven't seen her all day either. I haven't seen much of anybody, really." She huffed and jerked a thumb inconspicuously over her shoulder, "Just him."

"Is that so bad?" Harry said.

Pansy turned so that the three of them now stood in a triangle, no longer cutting him out, and replied "Perhaps, it is."

"Don't be so dramatic," Hermione said. "I think spending time with Harry is lovely."

"Thank you, Hermione." He smiled.

"_You_ spend all day with him and then we'll see if you're still so willing to throw him compliments." Pansy snapped.

Harry and Hermione erupted into laughter at her sudden vehemence.

She went on, "Hermione, where _have_ you been, though?"

"Oh," – she lifted the glass toward her lips and her eyes flickered over the rim to spot a lonely, silvery-haired boy skipping rocks into the lake and smiled inwardly – "Nowhere."

Pansy's eyes narrowed but, before she could further investigate, Daphne and Cedric walked up to the threesome with flushed cheeks.

"_Oh_," Pansy grumbled, "and where have _you two_ been all day, then?"

"Nowhere," Daphne replied sweetly.

"Mm, a very popular place today."

Daphne blinked, then glanced around at everyone else, "What?"

Hermione placed a hand on her arm and shook her head, "Don't worry about it."

"Anyway," Harry said. "Hermione, what are you planning on doing with your suitors?"

"Wait, aren't you one of her suitors?" Cedric asked.

"Yes, and no." He replied.

"Harry and I have agreed that while he still holds a formal place as suitor, he isn't an ideal fit for the role of king consort." Hermione supplied with a shrug.

"Oh," Cedric pondered.

"So, what are you going to do?" Daphne pressed.

She shifted back and forth, unsure of whether or not she was entirely comfortable giving out such precious information in front of so many people, and out in the open courtyard no less. If it had just been an innocent question regarding who one girl was planning on marrying, she would have no hesitation in talking through her thought process. However, her decision on who her future husband would be was unfortunately also a matter of state affairs.

Besides, she wasn't sure if she had a plan even if she could divulge one to her friends.

Lord Krum remained a person of interest. Hopefully tomorrow's meeting with both of her council's would provide some insight into whether or not Durmstrang was truly a threat.

Then, there was Lord Corner, who continued to gaze at her as if she were a harlot and not the queen. For obvious reasons, she'd been avoiding him during the week and had no intention of offering him a place on her throne.

Which left Lord Longbottom. Neville was possibly the most appropriate match – seeing as he was extremely wealthy and not at all plotting to overtake her hold on the kingdom – but he was still just _decent_. A word that Hermione had come to loathe.

"I can't say," she offered politely to her friends.

Only Daphne and Pansy nodded understandingly; they both knew better than the others what it felt like to be trapped between an unwanted marriage and moral obligation as a woman to wed.

Stupid archaic rules.

Hermione knew based on the low position of the sun that any minute now Minerva would be seeking her out to start the remainder of the night's events. Rather than wait for her advisor to find her, Hermione opted to lead Dean and now Roger – with the glass of water she desperately needed now thanks to the rich wine – toward the edge of the lake where she knew Minerva would be ordering men around in a last-minute attempt to organize the boats on the water.

"Yes, yes, right there. Lovely," Minerva chirped.

She was in a much better mood now than she had been when Hermione had finally run into her after nearly four hours of disappearing through the castle grounds with Draco.

If Hermione hadn't been Queen, she knew for a fact that Minerva would no doubt have tried to have her head removed for the stunt she'd pulled.

Wearing the crown did have its benefits.

"Minerva," she greeted with a polite nod.

"Ah, Hermione! Wonderful timing,"

She gestured for a young man, who had been obscured from Hermione's view originally, to step forward.

"Hermione, can I assume that you'll be content with Lord Longbottom escorting you this evening?"

Her grey brow arched in a way that left little room for Hermione to disagree. She didn't plan to since she knew all too well there was absolutely no way Draco would be allowed to accompany her. She glanced longingly around the edge of the water for him anyway; she was so sure she'd seen him just a moment ago (hence why she'd been so easily willing to turn herself into Minerva, for the hope that she would be able to sneak one conversation in with him before her duties).

"Of course," she replied sweetly.

"Lord Longbottom," Minerva spun to direct her piercing gaze on the tall, lanky man. "Are you prepared to escort Her Royal Highness in this evening's boat parade and lantern release?"

"The… the what?" He croaked.

Minerva huffed, "Surely, someone told you that you two would be the first to go?"

His eyes widened in fear; he cast a glance toward the Black Lake and then back at Minerva's beady eyes.

"No."

"Is that going to be a problem?"

Her voice warned him not to agree, but his social understanding seemed to be lacking with his initial shock and thus led him to nod furiously.

"I can't go out on that lake! It's full of horror… of monsters!"

"I can assure, Lord Longbottom, there are no monsters beneath its surface. That's just an old wives' tale. Now, come along."

She moved to direct him toward the dock, but he squeaked and scampered off toward the castle grounds. Once he was out of earshot, Hermione couldn't help but let out a low chuckle as she avoided Minerva's gaping expression and murderous gaze.

"Never mind him," she went on, "Come now, Hermione, it appears you'll be going unaccompanied in the boat this evening."

"Unaccompanied? The council will allow that?"

Minerva hurried her along the dock and into the first boat, then offered her a small shrug of her shoulders where no one could see the exchange.

"What they don't know won't hurt them. Keep your curtains drawn until it's time to release the lantern, understood?"

"Yes, Minerva." She placed a small hand over the wrinkled one at the edge of her boat, "Thank you."

"Go on, now!"

Two men then came up onto the dock and released the binds that held her boat; they gave her a forceful push toward the center of the lake and off she went.

She sat back on the bench and watched the four-poster canopy above her wrestle in the cold winds that pulled her farther out into the darkness.

. . .

_23 September 1455_

_7:09 pm _

Draco inhaled a deep breath and dove into the darkness, disappearing into the freezing cold water.

He forced his limbs to move, to propel him further from the safety and warmth of shore and ignored the heavy beating of his heart. It was begging him to get out of the water and cast a warming charm over his body. Unfortunately, he was able to supply neither of its wishes.

He'd been afraid that she'd be accompanied by one of her disastrous suitors, but thankfully the stupid boy had run off. His loss.

The chance to sit alongside Hermione, unaccompanied, was all too tempting. And so, as the water attempted to slow his muscles, stop his heart, and pull him into its depths, he fought it with every breath.

Finally, he came upon the lone boat on the water, with its curtains drawn, and hoisted himself up the side and fell – ungracefully unfortunately but to be fair he was rather desperate to get out of the freezing fucking water – onto the cushioned seating in between the two benches.

"Oh my God!" Hermione gasped.

Her hand went to cover her mouth but after a minute of taking in the scene before her – him, dripping wet and starting to shiver in the cold winds that rustled through the curtains of the boat – she immediately sprung up and leaned over him.

She wasn't touching him, her hands hovering above his heaving chest, but he still felt the warmth radiating off of her and welcomed it. Basked in it.

This is what he came for. This is what he dove into the unknown for. This is what he risked hypothermia for.

For her.

Her warmth. The way her eyes softened when they looked down at him. How even the implication that she would touch him drove him wild.

"Are you alright?" She panicked. "How did you – why did you – my goodness, Draco, you're _frigid_."

He sat up slowly and when she didn't back away, he felt his head spin; she was so, _so_ close. His lips turned up into a mischievous grin and he let his shoulders fall away in a shrug.

"You're mad," she said through a little laugh.

"Here," she continued, reaching behind her for the wool blanket she'd been wrapped in when he unceremoniously arrived, "Put this on or you'll get ill. You don't want to end up back in the infirmary now, do you?"

Her arms wrapped around him through the thick fabric as she cocooned him in its softness and warmth – which he knew was largely due to her own body heat radiating into it just minutes ago… _she wasn't making this easy for him_, he thought.

"Better?"

He nodded, then boldly reached out for her hand, to squeeze it between his as a way of saying thank you.

As per the expectations he'd come to know about muggle courting, especially when it came to their queen, he waited for her to pull away from his touch. As she had painstakingly done earlier that day.

But she didn't.

Instead, she reciprocated the touch and held onto his hand.

_Perhaps, I should dive into haunted, freezing cold lakes more often_, he mused.

"Now," she fixed her skirts and settled onto the cushioned floor of the boat next to him with a disapproving smile across her rouge lips, "What happened?"

His eyes flickered to the unlit lantern sitting on the other side of the boat, then back to her waiting brown eyes. He shrugged.

"You expect me to believe you just went for a nice, night swim in the Black Lake?" Her brow arched.

Another shrug.

"You do know it's rumored to kill anyone who goes in it, don't you?"

Actually, he did know that.

He doubted she knew as much as he did, to be honest, since most of the history of the Black Lake was magical. Nonetheless, it _was_ a bit dangerous for him to have been in it.

Draco attempted to display his best devil-may-care smile and tucked a loose curl behind her ear, as if to say, _It was worth it, Hermione, for you._

"Incorrigible," she sighed, "You're incorrigible."

He hated not being able to talk to her, but thankfully the more time they spent together the better she became at predicting his thoughts and carrying on with the conversation. And so, in their own way, they sat on the floor of the boat and continued to 'talk' until Hermione gasped and hurriedly rushed over to the lantern.

"Bloody hell," she groaned. "I nearly forgot the entire reason I'm even out on this horrid lake."

She explained to him that every year they lit lanterns on the lake for those they lost during a bloody battle in remembrance of their sacrifice and the purpose for which they fought for: the freedom and security of non-magic folk.

He nodded along to her animated recount of the battle and its influence on the Wizard War.

"I feel like I've just commandeered the entire conversation with all my talk of war, and I don't even know if you care about it at all. I'll just be quiet, now." She blushed and looked down at her fingers, clasping and unclasping them around the lantern.

Draco helped her light a match and light the lantern, but then placed a hand on her forearm and looked deeply into her eyes.

_I do care, please go on._

"I get carried away, you see, I'm just so fascinated with war and history and all that. It's a good read."

He nodded encouragingly; _I agree_.

"Right, well, let's take care of this first before Minerva decides she does want to lop my head off and find some obscure rule that will allow her to do it," she chuckled.

Hermione picked up the glowing lantern and carefully swept aside the curtains of the four-poster frame that faced back to the castle, which was also glowing fabulously in the distance. It was truly terrifying how far out they'd drifted.

She made a silent prayer – he could see her lips moving and caught certain words but couldn't make out the entire passage – and let the lantern float away into the night sky.

The sun had long since set, and so the only light was from the lantern she'd let loose, the castle, and the single candlelight in the boats. While, theirs was the farthest from the castle, Draco could now make out hundreds of others on the lake as they lit their own lanterns and released them into the dark sky following in their queen's example.

"It's tradition that I lead the lantern release," she explained seeing his silvery brows furrow as he took in the hundreds of floating lights.

It was mesmerizing. The golden glow of the flame from inside the parchment lit up the black sky more than the stars usually did. And while Draco had seen floating candles in the Manor, there was something different about hundreds and hundreds of lanterns floating above the dark lake and reflecting off of its mirrored surface.

He found himself gaping at its beauty – deeply lost in thought – and when he turned to express his awe to Hermione, he saw that she was already looking at him below hooded lids and fluttering lashes.

Draco wasn't sure what came over him then, but he was unable to fight the voice inside his head that reminded him she wasn't his. Not yet.

He leaned forward, slowly, and closed what little space had previously existed between them. His lips found hers, but he didn't dare overwhelm her with his affections. Instead, he held his lips against hers barely, just letting them brush against hers and feel her warmth more intimately. It almost wasn't even a kiss since they'd barely touched; even his hands had remained at his side and not tangled in her hair like he wanted them to be.

With great effort and self-control, he pulled away just enough to meet her dreamy gaze and assess the damage he'd done.

It was highly likely that he'd just ruined everything he'd worked so hard for; the voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him, demanding an explanation for the reckless thing he'd just done.

Surely, she would decline his advances now. Surely, she would be forced to retreat and avoid him in the castle.

There was absolutely no way he'd win her heart now, or worse, that he had but she wouldn't be allowed to indulge in her affections because he'd just recklessly kissed her in the middle of their boat without her consent and _certainly_ without thinking about her status as queen and the obligations she would no doubt have to answer to (even if she _had_ wanted to kiss him, which he desperately hoped that she did).

No, Draco was sure, she would want nothing to do with him now.

So, when she pressed her lips firmly to his and took his breath in hers, he was shocked.

. . .

_23 September 1455_

_8:27 pm_

"Do you see them?"

He squinted into the darkness, trying to identify which of the boats on the lake held their dear prince and his (infuriating to those who weren't infatuated with her for some bizarre reason) muggle queen.

"No," he lamented.

Theo extended the light from the end of his wand and directed it toward the lake. Not for the first time that night, it fizzled out as it reached the boundary that was just off shore.

"Fucking hell!"

Blaise kicked at a rock at the edge of the water, "We're never going to find him."

Theo recognized that tone and immediately spun around to see his friend wandering back into the forest.

"Oh, no you don't!" He called out.

Blaise turned around and sank down onto a boulder situated beneath a large oak.

"What if we never see him again?" He pouted.

"You can't think like that," Theo snapped.

"But what if he never finds the damned rock in time?"

He sighed, "Listen, if I know anything about Draco, I bet he's spending every spare moment searching that castle for that stupid rock. He's probably not even out on those boats! That's why we can't find him."

"Oh, yeah?" Blaise questioned. "You're absolutely sure?"

Theo sensed the change in tone and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, "What? What is it?"

Blaise stood up and pointed to the far side of the lake, away from all of the other boats and the muggle castle, "Look."

Theo squinted again, "I don't see anything."

"_Look_," his finger jerked again, and this time Theo did see what Blaise had been pointing at.

"Fuck,"

On the far side of the lake, there was a lone boat – one who had just been illuminated by a lantern, which then started a cascading effect with lanterns in the other boats still visible by the castle light – where he could make out two figures in its open drapes.

"That's got to be them," Blaise commented.

The two of them ran around the edge of the lake with which they had access to in order to get as close to the lone boat as they could. Once they reached the shore closest to it, they could easily identify their silvery prince leaning out of the open curtains and staring off into the sky full of lantern glow.

"Spending every spare moment searching for that rock, hm?" Blaise whined.

"Oh, shut up," Theo snapped.

To be fair, he saw Blaise's point (and to be fairer he entirely agreed with it, but that was not the point to be made here).

"The whole reason he even went through with the crazy wizard's deal was to get close to that muggle queen, right?" Theo said.

Blaise nodded hesitantly, "Right."

"So, that's what he's doing. He claims to be in love with her or something equally insane, right?"

Again, he nodded, "Right."

"Maybe she's even the key to finding the stupid rock."

Blaise arched a brow, "Ok, I don't think I can agree with _that_."

"Whatever," Theo waved his hand. "I'm just saying, maybe we can't help him on his quest to find the rock, but we can definitely help him win over the girl."

"We can?"

"Yes, Blaise, we can!"

Theo put a finger to his chin and thought heavily on what he could do. Obviously, there was no crossing the boundary – where the boat was currently situated – but perhaps there was some loophole he could find where they could still help Draco from where they stood on the shore.

"Hello, Theo," trilled a high-pitched voice.

He sighed, not even glancing down to the woman at his feet, "Not now, Ariel,"

There was the unspoken, _I'm a bit busy at the moment trying to save Prince Draco's soul, so now is really not a good time to flirt but maybe next Tuesday? _Or something along that line, when he suddenly jerked his head up and snapped his wand against his open palm.

"That's it!"

Theo directed his blazing blue eyes toward the mermaid at his feet, "Ariel, you're a genius."

She flicked her tail in the shallow, wading water and fixed him with a dazzling smile, "What did I do?"

"Well," he glanced over at Blaise who looked about as confused as Ariel did (which can only be expected since neither of them had the privilege of his exemplary thought process and fine problem-solving skills) "I was wondering if you'd be able to help us out with a little something?"

He turned on his most charming smile – the one he saved for damsels he was interested in pursuing for sexual congress – and watched as she practically melted beneath it.

"What is it?"

Theo tapped his wand and summoned a miniature display of the boat on the lake with forest leaves, "Well, first, you've got to create _the mood_."

. . .

_23 September 1455_

_8:43 pm_

"It's tradition that I lead the lantern release," she explained seeing his silvery brows furrow as he took in the hundreds of floating lights.

Hermione started to hear this soft rhythmic percussion sound, followed by traditional string and wind instrument sounds.

"Do you hear that?" She directed toward Draco.

He didn't respond; she assumed he was too enthralled with the lantern display (probably since he'd never experienced it) to register that she was speaking to him, much less that there was suddenly music erupting around them.

A deep voice echoed from outside the boat, "There you see him - "

"What the hell?" Hermione gasped, spinning around to try and identify the source (slightly still shocked that Draco was not reacting).

" – sitting there across the way."

She leaned farther outside the boat and noticed there was a slight disturbance in the water directly surrounding them.

"He don't got a lot to say, but there's something about him."

Hermione felt her head spin; she was sure the voice and the music had to be coming from somewhere but there was no one nearby them and other than the occasional ripple in the water there was absolutely no indication of it coming from around them.

But that was impossible… wasn't it?

"Now's your moment…"

The cold winds that had previously whipped at the curtains suddenly picked up and coursed through her hair as well, and as her hair fell from its pins into loose, messy curls around her face, she noticed the presence of fireflies – traditionally not seen this late in the year – in the boat.

Then the calming voice returned with renewed energy.

"Don't be scared, you've got the mood prepared. Go on and kiss the boy!"

She blinked several times, sure that by now Draco would be on to whatever was going on and looked at him from her position. His eyes were a bit glazed over as he stared off into the night sky.

Hermione glanced back at the fireflies, then to her left where Draco sat beside her.

"Don't stop now, don't try to hide it how, you want to, kiss the boy."

As insane and illogical as the mere presence of the voice was, it did have a point.

She'd spent all day trying so hard not to get too close to him, not to touch him, for the fear that if she did, she would do something truly unspeakable.

But seeing him here, beside her in this light, and thinking about how much he risked by swimming to her, it was impossible not to want to act on the words of the mysteriously romantic voice.

"You've got to kiss the boy… Go on and kiss the boy… kiss the boy…"

As the voice faded away – along with the extraneous winds and fireflies – Draco seemed to snap out of his reverie and finally looked away from the lanterns and the glowing castle. His grey stormy eyes focused on hers and she could see more clearly than ever, that he felt the same way about her as she did about him.

That, perhaps, he had also been holding back all day.

But he didn't any longer.

His lips were on hers, just barely, but it was enough to send an electric shock to her system and wake her up. It was as if she was taking a breath of fresh air.

He filled a void in her that she truly couldn't explain and when he finally kissed her, it was as if everything was coming together. Like she had been struggling to put together this puzzle of herself and he was the final piece.

When he pulled back ever-so-slightly, Hermione felt the absence of his touch like a thousand cuts and so she pressed her lips to his and wrapped her arms around his neck, never wanting to let go. Her bottom lip was between his teeth and her curls were tangled between his fingers.

It had been expected – especially given the singular topic of discussion at that morning's sermon – that Hermione would feel immense guilt at having her tongue slide along Draco's, but there was nothing.

Ok, there wasn't _nothing_. In fact, there was definitely something, but it wasn't guilt (which she was incredibly grateful for and decided to apply it towards some deep universal notion that perhaps they _were_ meant to be together and that she wasn't at all crazy for wanting to believe in true love – so take that, Pans!)

One thing was absolutely clear to her – with her palm grazing his jaw as her breath was heavy against his lips; his hands moving down her spine causing her stomach to flip – there was no going back to platonic friendship (which, arguably, they never had to begin with) and there was no marrying any other man.

For one who had to be so, so careful with who she married – and had sex with, a small voice in the back of her head reminded her – Hermione swore that if she couldn't have him, then she wouldn't have anyone.

Her council, she was sure, would have something to say about her plan (and his hands gripping tightly onto her thighs when she placed a kiss on his jaw and then down his neck).

Still, she would hold her ground. For him; for herself; for their future.

No, she couldn't possibly imagine sharing her bed with another.

_Her bed_, she internally repeated with shock.

Suddenly, he lifted her and brought her onto his lap; she let out an excited gasp as he did so, then tilted his chin up so that his lips met hers again.

The boat rocked with a forceful jolt which sent Draco – and Hermione who was still seated on his lap with her skirts covering their folded legs – backwards onto the cushioned floor.

She giggled at the motion and felt a warmth build in her cheeks when he looked at her with a sly smirk and tightened his hold on her, squeezing her waist between his solid muscles.

Except, she heard the most unnerving voice that jerked her back to reality.

"You sent a young girl, a young _queen_, out onto the Black Lake… by… herself?"

"Grand Master Snape, I can assure you, she's perfectly capable of handling a simple boat ride."

Hermione pulled away from Draco and saw his brows furrow in their usual form of confusion.

"It's Minerva," she whispered with eyes wide, "and Snape!"

His head snapped up, realizing the situation they were about to be in, and placed a quick kiss on her forehead before he slipped out of the far end of the boat and dipped below the dark water with a soft splash.

Panic started to subside – since she would no longer be caught with a boy and possibly framed for adultery (and hanged due to her crime of being of _the fairer sex _or some equivocal bullshite, queen or not) – and she willed her heart rate to decrease to a normal rhythm.

It was bad enough that her chest was heaving dramatically and that no matter how many times she splashed her face with the frigid water, she still felt his warmth all over her and her lips buzzing with the memory of his.

"Hermione," Minerva chirped moments before throwing back the curtains.

"Minerva," she forced out at a relatively normal octave. She nodded to her Hand lingering behind her advisor, "Snape."

"Majesty," he drawled.

His eyes narrowed as he took in her less-than-pristine appearance and the mess of cushions behind her as she stepped out onto the dock with the aid of two workers.

"Interesting," he continued, "I could have sworn that I heard a splash…"

There was a pause – and an emphatic lift of a dark brow – as he peered around the dark water for some evidence of her wrongdoing.

Hermione caught a glimpse of silver – Draco dripping as his dragged himself out of the water with his hair glistening under the moon's light – behind Snape and Minerva's line of sight and willed herself to provide a long-enough distraction so that he could run up the lawn and disappear into the safety of the castle walls.

"Oh," she stammered. "Right… splash… that was me."

"You?" He questioned.

"Yes, me."

Minerva held a hand up to her chest, "My goodness, Hermione, you didn't go _in_ the bloody lake, did you?"

"No, no," she waved her hands to reassure her, "Only splashed my face a bit."

Snape pursed his lips, "Why?"

"I was… er… tired. I wanted to wake myself up."

"Hm," he grunted.

Her eyes darted behind them to check on Draco, who had thankfully just gone out of view in the dim lighting, when Snape whipped dramatically around to where she'd been looking.

He turned back toward her slowly with an expression so suspicious she imagined he would very much like to read her mind, or perhaps make her spill the truth with one of his concoctions.

She smiled innocently, then yawned for emphasis, "If you don't mind, I'd very much like to go to bed now."

Minerva nodded, "Of course. I'll get the maids to run a bath and prepare your bedchambers right away."

The woman hurried away toward the castle, leaving Hermione on the dock with Snape and the approaching figures of Dean and Roger.

"Snape," she said. "I don't appreciate your suspicious eyes on me all the time."

"I would hardly say my eyes are… suspicious… Your Majesty," he arched a brow, "Unless there is something that I need to be suspicious of?"

"You are my Hand, first and foremost. Do well to remember that."

His eyes narrowed, "I am merely looking out for you. Do well to remember that."

She ignored the slight in favor of appearing benevolent as her guards came into earshot and wished him a goodnight before turning to Dean and letting him lead her across the lawn and toward the rest of the guests that milled among the courtyard.

. . .

_23 September 1455_

_10:11 pm_

"At this rate, he'll never find the Philosopher's Stone!" He snarled.

Tom watched from the shadows of the forest as Prince Draco managed to pull himself out of the water – unharmed and undetected – and disappear into the shadows of the castle grounds with his precious little muggle queen lingering behind on the dock.

He wanted to summon the monsters from the depths of the lake so that she may die a slow, painful death. Perhaps, then, Prince Draco wouldn't be so careless with his time.

It wasn't as if Tom really wanted to own Prince Draco's soul for all eternity, that had just been a little bit of motivation for the whelp to complete the task he was given. What he truly needed was a way to procure that Godric-forsaken stone.

There was a rustle among the leaves to his right, followed by his most (re: only) trustworthy companion.

"Ah, Nagini," he grinned.

_Master_, she hissed in return.

Tom quickly switched over to parseltongue, "What news do you bring, my pet?"

_The two boys, friends of Prince Draco's, were down by the lake just moments ago._

"Hm, interesting… Well, I believe it's time Lord Voldemort took matters into his own hands, don't you think?"

Her massive serpent head nodded, _Yes, Master._

"My pet," Tom continued, "Retrieve one of the boys for me, will you?"

_Of course, _she hissed, _which one?_

He grinned mischievously, "Whichever one is slower, I suppose."

Nagini nodded again, then turned and slithered away into the darkness of the forest. It was then that Tom had pieced together another possible way for him to retrieve the Stone; this method would require much more sacrifice for so little time outside of the boundary, but unfortunately (not for him, of course, _he_ wouldn't be sacrificing much of anything), it was a necessary evil.

He honestly disliked being cast as the villain, especially since it happened so often, because he didn't believe his methods were any less evil than those who claimed to be so good.

_The heroes_, he sneered internally.

"QUIRRELL," he roared.

"Y-Yes, M-Ma-Master?"

"Quirrell," he repeated at a much lower volume, "Take us back to the cottage."

"O-Of course, M-Master, right a-away."

The man – the pathetic, trembling one whose head he currently lived on the back of – was a poor excuse for a wizard, though his followers had since been lost. Those who had survived the war had publicly repent their ways, seen the light or some other lie, and failed to pass on their true beliefs to their lineage.

Soon, he would rise again and then he would show them. They will fear the name Lord Voldemort once more.

His followers that had abandoned him would be sorry then, he would make sure of it.

"The Philosopher's Stone will be mine," Tom said with a curl of his lip.

He hadn't necessarily directed it toward anyone – not trembling Quirrell nor the young man constricted by Nagini – but the lack of reaction demanded that he turn to face the boy with a mean, sly smile.

He held up an old, worn diary before the boy's paled face then tossed it into the bright green flames erupting out of the cauldron between them, casting a sickly glow across both of their complexions.

"I don't care whether Prince Draco's soul is mine or not, the Stone will be, and then I will make every witch and wizard writhe, and I'll watch my abandoned followers wriggle like a worm on a hook!"

Tom watched the flames rise as he dropped a few more ingredients into the cauldron, then caught Quirrell's body fall limp along with the boy's in his peripheral vision.

He stretched his newly-formed limbs and strolled to the far side of the room to look upon himself in the mirror. His dark hair was slicked back, and his features were otherwise so fine, they were altogether dazzling and hard to look away from. He was sure, along with his destructive charm, that the young muggle queen would find him irresistible.

"Nagini," he said with his new, younger voice.

_Yes?_

"Let go of that dirty boy. He's not going anywhere, and I have much work to do outside of these pathetic boundaries."

She immediately uncoiled herself and let the boy's body slump onto the floor. Tom swept his hand across her thick body and gave her a crooked smile.

"You, my pet, have another task to fulfill inside these boundaries," – she slid her fork tongue in and out of her mouth furiously – "Yes, I know, but soon we will be rid of them… and the muggles too."

He told her of his plan, then directed her toward the town while he left the cottage and walked briskly in the other direction, where the muggle castle glowed in the distance.

. . .


	6. The Wonderland

. . .

_**Chapter 6 – The Wonderland**_

. . .

_24 September 1455_

_4:02 am_

This morning, since she'd been unable to sleep, Hermione had escaped from her bedchambers without her guards – using a limited tunnel system between the stone walls – and went for a stroll around the castle. There were multiple guards everywhere, patrolling along the staircases and main hallways, so she was forced to use smaller hallways and alcoves to maneuver around the floors undetected.

It wasn't as if her guards were incompetent by any means, but rather that she was just that gifted at avoiding them.

Hermione had been caught a couple of times when she first started to sneak away from her caretakers – and then rightfully reprimanded by Minerva for putting not only her own life in jeopardy, but also the succession of the monarchy of her kingdom – in her country home. It was a quaint palace that had been her home since the death of her parents. The council at the time had declared that it would be safer for her to remain hidden away while her Uncle Colbert took over as Regent, and while she had many things she'd like to say to them about that (none of them ladylike or kind in the slightest), it was for the best that she remained silent on that decree (as Pansy so often reminded her).

Nonetheless, after years of practice in that home, she finally mastered the art of disappearing. It may not have been for very long, but whatever limited freedom Hermione was able to grasp, she cherished.

When she moved to the Palace of Hogwarts to establish her reign and permanent residence just last year, it had taken only a few months for her to learn how to avoid her guards in the many hallways with which they patrolled around the clock. True, the castle was much more complex and spacious than her country home, but it had the benefit of providing her with these secret passageways throughout its enormous structure.

They didn't always lead somewhere – in fact, most of them ran only the length of one hallway and ended in a dead-end – but those that did were so vast she hardly had time to explore all of them, much less commit them to memory.

This morning she had intended to trace more patterns for her current project – it was an intricate map of the castle that included the many secret passageways which she aptly named the Marauders Map – but had been so lost in her own thoughts that she didn't even realize she'd come out of one of the tunnels and into an alcove on the second floor.

"Bloody hell," she murmured.

Hermione leaned against the loose wooden panel and with her free hand – the other holding onto her precious source of light – pushed open the hidden door and emerged into the middle of the Hall of Portraits.

On the other end of the hall, she saw the most peculiar sighting: Draco gazing upon one of the portraits in his night clothes (she also noticed that his night clothes comprised of loose-fitted linen trousers, a bare chest, and no robe; his bare chest, of course, was what she caught herself staring at because even in the dim lighting his toned, pale muscles stood out against his naturally lean frame).

As stealthily as she could, Hermione crept down the hall toward him. Once she was close enough to whisper without alerting the guard she knew to be just around the corner, she softly said hello and inquired as to what he was so fascinated by at this time of day.

He gestured to the man in the frame and then looked over his shoulder at her expectantly. Her warm eyes shifted from his cool ones to those of the man in the painting and studied them as she tried not to notice Draco's eyes on her.

With a deep inhale, she rocked back on the balls of her feet and tapped the gilded frame before meeting his stunning grey eyes. Similarly to the first time she saw them, they were alert and silvery; it was almost as if their color changed according to his mood.

"This is Grand Master Nicolas Flamel," she told him. "You remember when I first told you about him, don't you?"

Draco mimed the opening and closing of a book and she nodded her affirmation.

"Yes, exactly. Well, if you recall, I mentioned that Flamel had rather strong ties with my family and – wait – come with me."

Hermione took hold of Draco's hand and led him back down the hallway, behind the painting of a fat lady, – cleverly named Fat Lady – through a series of abandoned sitting rooms, and down one of the secret passageways.

Amidst the cold, damp stone pathways lit only by her candlelight, Hermione told him all she knew of Flamel and his affiliation with her family and thus its historic significance to the one artefact she knew he was most interested in learning about: The Philosopher's Stone.

King James II (Hermione's great-great-great grandfather on her paternal side) was a kind a loving king, like his father before him and like many men of the Granger lineage, but his benevolence would eventually be the death of him. As was custom back then, nearly a century ago, the four houses of the magical kingdom were in good relations with the great kingdom; however, it was their open trade and communication that caused a singular-minded group of individuals to rally against the king and all he possessed and represented.

The leader of this rebellious group of wizards called himself Lord Voldemort.

The war began, as King James II had noted in one of his diaries, because this murderous lord wanted to steal a rare (quite literally the only one of its kind) magical artefact that the king had commissioned for.

The love story of King James II and his beloved, beautiful wife Queen Anne was one that could not be told often enough. Anne had grown up a commoner in the kingdom and had attended the king's coronation ball as help, but the minute the king laid eyes on her, he took no notice of any other woman in the room. In fact, he had gone out of his way to talk with her and dance with her all evening. By morning, she was gone from the palace, but that did not stop him from tracking her down – literally by going door to door in the surrounding villages – and proposing to her on the spot.

(Which Hermione thought was especially unfair and sexist given her current position but that's the way the world worked, didn't it?)

When Queen Anne became distressingly ill following the birth of their son, and heir to the throne, and there was absolutely nothing their healers could do, King James II turned to House Ravenclaw and begged for something, _anything_ that would help cure his ailing wife and queen.

That was when he was first in contact with Nicolas Flamel. The scholar, incentivized by the fear of losing his own wife, promised the king that he would do everything in his power to save the queen. Using his extensive knowledge of alchemy, Flamel was able to construct a blood-red stone that contained several significant magical powers. One of which, being the ability to create everlasting life.

Unfortunately, Queen Anne died shortly before the stone was completed, but the king asked that the precious stone be delivered to the palace for safekeeping. Apparently, while the king had been able to keep the invention of the stone secretive, Flamel had been much more boisterous and subsequently flaunted his ability to cheat death via the stone to anyone who would listen.

One of those people would be Lord Voldemort.

His up-and-coming band of followers had been itching to start an uprising with the muggle kingdom, as they greatly despised having any relationship with non-magical folk. They believed the magical kingdom, and knowledge of magic altogether, should remain strictly with those who practiced it. Henceforth, Lord Voldemort and his followers learned of the stone's transportation to the Palace of Hogwarts and staged a coup to intervene its delivery and procure it.

While their initial plot had been unsuccessful, the immediate war they created in attacking the muggle palace, was more so (again, depending on whose side you wished to view it from). Neither the muggle kingdom nor the magical kingdom was prepared for a war they did not want nor believed in, but it soon dissolved into the bloodiest war either had ever experienced.

The war raged on for nearly a decade and only ended when the magical kingdom vanished into thin air. There was no trace of them, of any of them, nor of their magic.

The entire kingdom, including the succession of kings and queens who came to rule it (eventually including Hermione's parents), was on edge; in truth, the idea of peace was only widely believed after the birth of the new princess just shy of two decades ago, when the kingdom had celebrated seventy years since the last known sighting of a witch or wizard.

"It's rumored," Hermione said at the end of her lecture. "The Philosopher's Stone is still hidden within these very walls."

Draco reached out to trace his hand along the dark stones of the passageway they'd been walking down, then looked over to her with a curious expression.

_You mean _these_ very walls?_

"Perhaps," she shrugged. "I've read all of my ancestor's journals regarding the Stone, since its historical significance is so fascinating aside from the fact that it might actually contain magical qualities. Also, because I would very much like to behold such a treasure and have some hopes of one day finding it."

She unfolded her intricate map and held it out for him as they reached a set of stone stairs that she knew led down to the dungeon level.

"We're here," she pointed out to him. "I've tried to mark all of these secret passageways that are hidden in the castle along with its other architecture. At first it was helpful just to learn my way around the castle, but now I secretly hope that one day it will lead me to some hidden room in which the Stone may have been sealed away in. According to my ancestor's journals, there is no one alive who knows the whereabouts of it. Even King James II never wrote of its location in the castle, only that it made it here safely… and unfortunately for his wife the queen too late."

There was a perplexed expression across Draco's face that flashed before the candlelight which she only caught as he gestured for her to descend the steps before him and her light swept in front of his face.

She wasn't entirely sure what to make of it, but she did not want to talk about history or magic rocks that may or may not still be in existence any longer. Instead, Hermione wanted to go on kissing him like she had in the boat on the lake and so, she lit a torch that hung on the wall at the bottom of the stairs and gently placed her candelabra on the floor.

Hermione had to tilt her head and raise her eyes to meet his since he towered so much above her when they stood facing each other.

"There's something about firelight," she whispered a tad breathlessly. "The flames… the glow it creates in the dark… I've always found it so enticing."

_The way it makes your eyes seem somehow brighter and also darker and so, so sinful, _she didn't say.

Her eyes flickered down to his mouth, to the lips she longed to taste again with her own. The thought of it alone made her feel dizzy and a strange heat rise in her lower abdomen and even further down between her legs.

She knew all too well that she would have to admit her sins to her Confessor; that she would have to add kissing and dirty, sinful thoughts along with her usual list comprising of temper and impatience. But she didn't care. She would gladly add another, far more unforgiving sin for an unmarried queen, to the list.

"The torch reminds me of the lanterns. Do you remember how we - "

He took her face between his hands and brought it up to hers, then traced his thumb gently down the side of her face, pulling at her lower lip before he took it between his own. The kiss quickly dissolved as he pressed up against her and backed her to the wall; if she wasn't already so light-headed and weak from the warmth of his body and the intensity of his kiss, she would have been from the thrill of his strength.

Her small hands gripped his arms, then his hips, and she drew him closer to her. There was a jolt against her abdomen and Hermione gasped excitedly, deeply delighted that she aroused him as much as he did her. He took the opportunity to slide his tongue along hers, pushing deeper than he dared to do on the boat. She followed his example and did the same; both of their hands now tangled in each other's hair.

There was a pause for breath, which lead to Draco picking her up and holding her thighs tightly to his hips as he pushed her against the hard stone. She didn't mind. He didn't treat her like a dainty china-doll that might break; he didn't talk down to her as if she was a child. She found she liked how rough he was with her, how much he trusted and believed in her.

Though the passageway was cold and damp, there was nothing but heat and perspiration between their bodies. Even between the layers of their clothing (which wasn't much; she wore a simple dress that she had been able to tie herself in the dark while he was half-undressed), Hermione could tell his heart was racing just as hers was.

Trusting that he would not let her fall, she dared to reach between her legs and place her palm against the bulge in his breeches. For some reason unbeknownst to her, he moved her hand away. She moved it back and pressed a bit harder.

He couldn't talk – not that she was entirely sure what he would even say to what her hand was doing – but the look of pure pleasure on his face in the dim lighting was enough to unravel her.

There was a growing pressure between her legs that she wanted desperately for him to give attention to, though she knew it was the one place any member of his body could not safely go, for the sake of protecting her virginity.

Women often talked in hushed, excited tones about this particular part of men's bodies. It was, apparently, desire by most women as well as bringing desire to most women. Hermione had never truly understood what was so enticing about a man's penis – even though she'd read all about it and even confessed at haven done so – until this moment.

Hermione slipped her hand beneath his waistband and went on caressing him, up and down, changing the pressure of her hold from light to hard; she watched his face transcend joy and felt that she too might die, if not for the fear that she may never have him between her.

The taste of his lips reminded her of the sweetness of strawberries and all the way back up the tunnels to her bedchambers on the seventh floor, Hermione could not help but flick her tongue over her lips and attempt to taste him again and again.

By the time Hermione crept under her covers and shut her eyes, it was already daylight. So, when her handmaids woke her only minutes later, it was with great reluctance that she got up and allowed them to bathe and dress her in time for breakfast and her long list of sovereign responsibilities that demanded her attention that day.

. . .

_24 September 1455_

_9:12 am_

"Oh, _fuck me_."

Pansy gasped as the pressure between her legs released in a blinding elation.

Her skirts shuffled as Harry's head came into view between her hips; the flick of his tongue across the slickness of his lips sent her reeling.

"Gladly," he teased.

Seeing as Pansy was no longer a virgin, she didn't see the harm in giving in to the sin of flesh. It wasn't like she could lose her precious virtue _again_. Sure, there was the risk that as she continuously welcomed Harry's penetration, she was also welcoming the likelihood of her getting pregnant (and out of wedlock, too, what would her mother have to say?). However, she firmly believed that after the strict lecture she'd given her anatomy, that it would cooperate in not making matters worse.

Ok, and yes, one might say that sex between and unmarried couple, however little or however often it happened (and it was _often_) was a sin no matter the circumstances (that _one_ referring slightly, possibly, most likely, ok entirely to Hermione and Daphne).

But whatever… because Pansy never fully believed in any of that stuff anyway and she was sure that at this point even if she fully admitted the so-called sin she committed with Harry to her Confessor that he wouldn't even believe her. In fact, she was almost certain that he would defend her before God if there was a problem when (re: if, because who _really _knows, right?) she showed up at Heaven's doors. Why, you ask? Because Pansy may be many terrible things, but she was not dumb.

To the public eye (and for the most part, also to Hermione and Daphne), Pansy retained an image so pure that hardly any ill rumors against her would stand.

She was a high-born, well-bred lady with impeccable taste, envious beauty, and a mouth so sharp it could cut a man's head off.

(The head you choose to define in the previous statement is up to you, because in Pansy's eyes men are incapable of thinking clearly with either.)

Which is exactly why when Harry pulled her hips lower so that they were aligned with his, she sank her teeth in his bottom lip and let out a soft moan as he thrust himself deep inside of her.

"You know," Harry said when they finished, trailing his fingertips along the curve of her hip, "I expected you to treat me worse."

"Oh?" Pansy exclaimed, then sat up with a mischievous smirk. "Is that what gets you all hot and bothered, Lord Potter?"

"Perhaps," he replied with an equally mean, little grin.

Pansy leaned over and pinned his arms above his head, then smiled her sickly-sweet smile down at him from between loose strands of her raven-colored hair, "What if I told you that you weren't the first man in my bed? Or that you likely won't be the last, either."

Harry's dazed expression immediately shifted to one of provocation.

"Whoa, whoa,"

"Or the best…" She added.

"Firstly," Harry began. "I was definitely the first man you've had sex with – you can't pretend otherwise because I was there. I saw the evidence and I heard your scream. Secondly, that's not what I meant."

His hands sprung against her hold, then he turned to pin her down on the bed and made her bear the brunt of his weight.

"I didn't mean treat me worse like that, Pans." He huffed. "I was expecting something more along the lines of you blindfolding me or… or tying me up."

"_Firstly_," she mimicked, arching a brow. "You mean like last night? _Secondly_, you don't get to call me 'Pans' only friends get to do that."

His eyes flickered down to their naked bodies pressed up against each other (his notable manhood growing with erection), then he stated sarcastically, "We aren't friends?"

"No. No, we are not."

He sighed and backed off of her to lie on his back beside her and rest his hands behind his head.

"Wow, I'd love to see how you treat your friends if you don't consider me one."

His tone was somewhat amused, but Pansy could sense the insecurity behind his words.

"Really?" She sat up and propped her head up on one arm, "This again?"

"You know - "

"For the love of – Harry if you say that blasted phrase one more time I swear - " She bit her lip to cut herself off, then lowered her voice and continued at a much more appropriate octave. "Every time you say that you typically follow up with some invasive question or grossly personal statement. Don't."

A sharp exhale.

"Fine."

He turned away from her and Pansy had to resist the urge to kick, scream, and pull her own hair out at his childish behavior. Must she always be the one to set everyone straight? Must she always be the only one with a shred of logical reasoning?

"What?" She accused. "What is it?"

He mumbled, "Nothing."

She wanted to smack him. She didn't (which if God did exist, she thought he should be extremely proud of). But she wanted to.

"Spit it out, Henry Potter, or so help me - "

"Is this just sex for you?" He snapped.

Pansy nearly recoiled at the sheer ice in his voice, let alone the piercing stare of his jewel-toned eyes. The very eyes that got her into this mess in the first place.

"Yes. It's just sex."

He threw his hands in the air, "How can you say that? I've offered to _marry you_. At the very least, let me court you."

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because…" She trailed off, giving him a cold shrug.

His eyes narrowed and his fists clenched, but Pansy knew that only meant he was more hurt than angry. "Is this because of your parents?"

Now, it was her turn to be defensive.

"What about my parents?"

No one in this castle – not even her best friend, Her Royal Highness Queen Hermione – would have dared oppose Pansy when she used that tone. But, then again, Harry was certainly not the brightest. The bravest, yes, perhaps, but not the brightest.

"They're the reason you won't be seen with me, isn't it? Why you won't marry me?"

She gasped, "How dare you! Maybe this has everything to do with you, you arrogant arsehole, did that ever occur to you?"

"No… Maybe this has everything to do with the fact that you spend _countless_ hours trying to accomplish things that you think will make them proud of you when, based on the way you talk about them, nothing you do is ever good enough for them. So, why would I be, right?"

Her blood was boiling; Pansy could almost literally feel herself preparing to blow, but she fought the urge to scream because she didn't want to let him know that he'd gotten to her.

That even though he'd only known her for a fraction of her life, he'd managed to dig deep and get to the core of everything she ever did and why – which was undeniably much more than any of her friends could claim.

"Get out," she spat.

"No."

"_Excuse me_?"

"You heard me," he told her. "I'm not going anywhere."

Then, he pressed his body up against her again and held her head between his hands; her heart was beating so rapidly she was certain it would explode out of her chest any second. Reassuringly, his looked like it was about to do the same.

"I'm not going anywhere." He repeated. "I don't know why you never let anybody in, or why you constantly try to push them away when you do, but I'm not going to be one of those people, Pansy. I meant what I said when I proposed. I'm in it for the long haul."

Her eyes flickered across his, reveling in the gleam of emerald in the morning light.

"Get off of me," she whispered dryly. "You're crushing me."

Harry sighed and shook his head but did roll off of her. The stone was frigid against her bare feet as she scampered over to the porcelain clawfoot tub tucked into the quaint bathroom on the other side of her state chambers.

Last night, since they'd ended up back in her bedroom rather than his, Pansy had to pretend to be suffering from a headache so that she would be able to rid herself of her handmaid. It was really quite comical, actually, when Millicent – nicknamed Millie – immediately shuffled out of the room whispering prayers under her breath (apparently a sick Lady Four-Names was one not to be trifled with, who knew?).

So, now, Pansy had to run her own bath.

Everything in her bedchambers was elegant and rich, including her quaint – and by quaint she meant slightly smaller than Hermione's – washroom, despite not being one of the royal state apartments itself. This was largely due to the fact that Pansy _did_ have four names, all of which were individually wealthy and important aside from the fact that her parents expanded on them.

What Harry said was, unfortunately, true.

It was Pansy's deep-rooted and self-damaging wish to please her parents and make them proud of their only daughter above all else. Much to her father's disliking, he had been born one daughter and no sons. While he never took out his disappointment on his wife, he did not hold back when it came to his daughter.

Viscount Idris Parkinson was a strict and unforgiving man. He had instilled his fear of failure into his daughter at a young age which evidently resulted in her volunteering any free time she had as a child to learning his trade (which was commerce and general manipulation). This free time presented itself when her mother, Viscountess Pamela Parkinson – yes, technically speaking, Pansy was also a Viscountess but that was from a title and lands bestowed upon her from her father's side of the family; her mother's title and lands were in Great Lake, of which Pansy was given ladyship titles and lands… it was all very confusing to Pansy when she was taught such things at the wonderful age of five years – was not lecturing her on all things the fairer sex were expected to excel at in order to make a suitable wife (which brought about Pansy's ability to collect information on everyone and everything since it would be her future job to know all that was going on in her household).

Ugh. She was sick of it all.

She was sick of receiving weekly letters from her father scolding her for her expenditures and from her mother insisting that she find a suitable husband. By suitable, Viscountess Parkinson meant a man with equal – if not more – wealth and titles.

Which, Harry was not.

Though, Pansy still wasn't entirely sure that she did want to marry him, even if he had been worthy in her parents' eyes for marriage. It was all so confusing. She wanted him, that was obvious enough from her physical reaction to seeing him at any given time. But were they truly compatible?

Would they make a good husband and wife, a good team?

That – which thankfully Harry hadn't picked up on… yet – was the other fear she held near her heart. Despite all of her talk on the irrational need for love and affection in marriages, Pansy did not want to end up in a frigid and unloving relationship.

Thank _fuck_ Hermione didn't know that. She would never let Pansy hear the end of it.

The faucet had been running for less than two minutes before Harry shouted over the loud roaring of the water filling the bathtub.

"Can I join you?"

She crossed her arms instinctively and frowned despite the fact that he could see neither.

"No." – Pansy paused to let out an exasperated sigh – "Fuck, fine. Yes. But you're washing me first!"

There was a low chuckle and then the sound of footsteps.

They sat in the bubble-filled warm water talking about nonsense (Pansy's favorite color was a pretty lilac – "I would never have guessed that." "Elaborate… I dare you." – whereas Harry's was a deep garnet) as well as arguing about politics and the economy of the kingdom (unsurprisingly she was more conservative whereas he was more liberal) until both of their fingertips were wrinkled.

"Lady Parkinson…" Trilled the voice of Millie as she entered the bedchambers.

Pansy – sitting opposite Harry but facing the washroom door – shoved Harry further down into the water with a loud splash and hissed at him to be quiet along with a few obscenities. His disheveled hair was barely hidden by the porcelain tub, his legs were now tangled around Pansy's, and his arms were wrapped around her hips under the water.

"Millie," Pansy called in return.

"Good morning Lady Parkinson, though I daresay it's practically noon. How are you feeling today, ma'am?"

The young girl, roughly the same age as Pansy, walked timidly into the washroom. Her auburn hair was tied back into a messy chignon with loose pieces falling in her small, plain face. She lifted a linen from the stool beside the dresser of scents, lotions and oils and approached Pansy with it open for her to step out of the tub and wrap herself in.

"I'm feeling better, Millie. Though, I would prefer to do that myself." She motioned to the stool. "You can leave that there. I'd like to stay in the tub a bit longer."

"But… But ma'am, your fingers! Surely, you'd like to get out? Let me help you."

Unexpectedly, Harry's hand moved from her hip and one of his own fingers found itself inside of her.

"_Oh_," Pansy gasped, biting her lip. "No," she choked out. "Millie, please leave."

"I'll wait in your chambers, then, so I can dress and prepare you for the day." The girl curtsied.

He inserted another finger and brought them relentlessly in and out with a rhythm so tantalizing, yet careful so as not to disturb the water violently.

"No. Get out, Millie."

Her face fell, upset that she'd been rejected by her mistress, and she stammered, "Lady Parkinson, is there - "

"Millie, this has nothing to do with your service. You are fine. I just need some _privacy_." – the last word was dispelled just as Harry's thumb found her clitoris – "I will ring for you when I need dressing, how about that?"

Not that she really had much of a choice, but Millie nodded and swiftly left the room. Upon hearing the thunderous closing of the main chamber door, Harry sat up and smirked mercilessly at Pansy after she was spent.

"That was rude," she remarked.

He shrugged. "So are you, my dear."

"Don't call me that."

Harry arched a brow at her at her as if to say, _My point exactly_. Pansy chose to physically reprimand him for the gesture – via splashing his arrogant smile – rather than verbally respond.

He only laughed and kissed her cheek quickly before stepping out of the tub and wrapping himself in the only linen available.

. . .

_24 September 1455_

_11:49 am_

Breakfast had been mediocre (aside from the unseasonal strawberries that had been brought in by specific request from Her Majesty).

Formally answering letters of state with Her Hand had been exhausting (largely due to Snape's critiquing every word choice she made and thus making her start over again and again).

Later on, her privy council and larger council meetings would be depressing, she was sure (because of so many reasons, so why bother trying to narrow it down, hm?).

However, now, sitting in the Throne Room and receiving subjects who wished to vex their opposition to various matters of state was by far the worst of the queenly affairs she was meant to partake in today (which was namely because Her Majesty found it near impossible to focus on what her people were complaining about after receiving less than a wink of sleep).

It didn't help that she had but one main concern on the forefront of her mind: who was going to take the place of her king consort?

Tomorrow she was expected to announce to her council, then to her entire kingdom, who would be her husband and their next king. Which meant that the suitors were off hunting and engaging in other activities that lie outside of the castle grounds so as to give Hermione some peace of mind to finalize her decision.

Neville was the obvious choice except for the fact that Hermione wanted absolutely nothing to do with any other man that wasn't Draco. She desperately wished there was some winning argument she could make to her council that would allow them to let her marry him instead of one of her suitors. Unfortunately, she already knew what their main concerns would be and there was nothing she could say that could change the fact that Draco was not from noble blood nor able to speak.

It would be easier to convince the council to let her rule alone.

"Where is my dear Uncle Colbert?" Hermione requested.

Dean eyed Minerva – who nodded encouragingly – and then stepped forward to lean in her ear, "He said he had business to attend to in the south, Your Majesty."

She nodded her understanding and thanked him for his information without even bothering to correct his formality. Lack of sleep (and, unrelated, lack of patience) was a bitch.

Hermione tapped her fingers gently against the gold-plated throne she sat in and waited for the next commoner to enter the room and present her with his dilemma.

. . .

_24 September 1455_

_11:58 am _

The dark and intricate passageways were genius as much as they were bullshit.

The map he borrowed – ok, stole, but he _did _intend to return it at some point – from Hermione was detailed and beautiful, but it wasn't complete and so, when Draco walked down yet another dead-end that wasn't yet drawn onto the map, he cursed internally and turned back down the stone walkway.

He'd been wandering around aimlessly now after going through all of the marked tunnels and was growing more and more frustrated. The ink on his forearm was nearly complete, and judging from his own time-clock, Draco had only hours left until his soul belonged to a bodiless madman. The snake burned as it moved again, coiling tighter in on itself and slithering down his forearm toward his wrist, but he pushed through the pain and tried to take a deep breath despite the feeling that his entire world was about to fall out from beneath his feet.

The only hope Draco had now in recovering the Stone and saving his soul was finding it hidden among one of these Godric-forsaken passageways.

There was a small section of this pathway that was lit with what Draco initially assumed was from natural sunlight, but when he passed it a second time, he heard an eerily familiar voice that made him stop cold in his tracks and peer into the gaps between the stones.

On the other side of the wall was what appeared to be the Throne Room; he could make out Hermione's characteristically voluminous curls bounce as she greeted the young man who stood before her.

The man was tall, slender, and so fair it was ethereal; there was no natural way one could achieve such a pale and perfect complexion that it immediately made Draco wary of the man's proximity to his beloved muggle queen.

When the man spoke again, it was as if honey itself was dripping from his mouth, but all Draco could hear was the scraping of nails against metal as his memory finally placed why the voice had been so familiar.

"My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle."

It was him.

It was _him_.

But it was _his_ voice.

Draco's voice.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

How did he do that? How did he manage to bypass the boundary and enter the castle grounds? Hadn't he needed Draco to transform into a muggle for the exact reason? And why on earth was he using Draco's voice?

Riddle had his own fucking voice (it was raspy and not nearly as sultry and sexy as Draco's, of course, but still) so what the fuck was happening? Had this been his plan all along? Did Draco's soul never really stand a chance?

Draco watched in horror as he bowed to Hermione and moved to kiss her fingertips, as was custom when greeting a monarch, and her initial platonic grin grew into a glorious flirtatious smile.

He stumbled backwards away from the wall and fell onto the cold, hard, wet floor. This wasn't happening. _This wasn't happening_.

The Tom Riddle that stood before her wearing a charming smile definitely did not have the same withered ghost of a face that had once been plastered onto the back of Quirrell's head, but the similarities in the facial features were undeniable, even if they were currently twisted into some fantasy of a dark prince.

He rushed through the passage and emerged into the hall just outside the Throne Room, then slipped in quietly and gently made his way through the crowd of noble men and women watching their queen from the sidelines of the large, elaborate room.

Once he was close enough to clearly see every minute expression and muscle twitch on both Hermione's and Riddle's face, he willed his heart to please, _for the love of Merlin_, beat just a little quieter so that he wouldn't be seen by this dangerous man.

Too late.

His black eyes found Draco's the second he looked up, as if he knew _exactly_ where he was and had been waiting for him to join them in the room before continuing with his introduction.

"Your voice…" She said under her breath. "Tom Marvolo Riddle," Hermione repeated. "What an interesting name."

"I'm not entirely fond of it," he shrugged.

"No? I think it's a strong name."

A compliment from a queen. The room was silent, listening to every word of their exchange now, caught under his spell of charm and beauty.

"It's not a lord's name." Riddle said.

"Hm," Hermione pressed a jeweled finger to her lip in contemplation. "Is that why you stand before me, then? You wish for me to grant you lordship?"

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, do I look like a lord to you?"

There were several gasps among the crowd; it was already impolite just how informal he was being with Hermione, but to push it as far as he did with the last comment? Unheard of.

At least that's what he caught Minerva murmuring under her breath from a few meters away.

But Draco was too preoccupied trying to understand the purposeful wink Riddle had directed towards him during that last comment to concern himself with something so ridiculous as conversation etiquette.

_Do I look like a lord to you?_

What on earth was that supposed to mean? What was happening? Was any of this even real?

It felt distressingly like a nightmare come to life, but Draco tried not to let panic take over; he had to remain strong and alert for Hermione's sake. She had no idea the amount of danger she was in, and if she fell for his tricks the same way everyone else in the room seemed to, then there would be no saving her.

They might both become Riddle's puppets, yet.

The entire room held its breath, waiting for their unforgiving queen to make this man wish he'd never opened his smart mouth; Minerva and Snape stood tensely at her side now.

But Hermione simply laughed.

It wasn't a terrifying laugh that might indicate he'd just booked his one-way ticket to the Tower either. It was the kind of carefree laugh that bounced off the high-ceilings and sounded like the angels themselves decided to join in on the merry affair.

In some cruel twist of fate, the very same laugh that caused him to fall recklessly and instantaneously in love with her now shattered his heart into a million pieces.

_Take my soul_, he thought, _there's nothing left of it anyway if I can't have her._

"You are a very bold man, Mr. Riddle." Hermione noted.

He gave a theatrical bow, "Please, call me Tom."

"Tom." She repeated, testing the name on her lips. The same lips he had kissed but only hours ago. It felt like a lifetime now. "Very well. What is it that you think I can do for you?"

"It's not what you can do for me, Your Majesty, but what I can do for you."

She arched a brow.

"You see," he went on. "I hear you are looking for a husband."

Another purposeful glance askance toward Draco.

"Ah, and you've come to lay your claim to my throne. You don't wish to be a lord, but you find king consort more fitting?"

He shrugged, "King consort is merely a side effect. I offer you a husband, first and foremost."

Alarms were now going off in Draco's mind, loud and unrelenting. What was Riddle _doing_? He didn't want anything to do with Hermione when they'd made the deal; he was only interested in the cursed Philosopher's Stone.

Unless he believed she was the key to finding it? That maybe she even possessed it herself, but that was impossible. Draco would have known about it. She would have told him… wouldn't she?

"Why would I agree to such a proposition?" Hermione responded, and although her tone was light and pretty, her words gave Draco hope that perhaps she would be able to resist Riddle after all.

Hands behind his back and eyes focused intently on her, Riddle stepped forward but was swiftly intercepted by her guards.

"May I?" He requested.

Hermione's mouth crooked upward almost imperceptibly, however her hand waved off her guards with clear indignation.

Riddle stepped forward and knelt at the bottom of her dais with an earnest smile.

"Your Majesty, I could tell you all about my advantageous traits, but I have a feeling that you are tired of hearing that after spending a week with such men that were sent to do just that. I could try to win your heart with simple flattery, but I trust you are too cautious to choose a husband from pleasant words alone."

When Riddle paused to gaze longingly at her, Draco saw her eyes glaze over and her face soften to his speech; he felt so violently sick he wondered how he managed to stomach it.

"Hm," Hermione loftily said.

"Oh, what would I do to see you smiling at me?"

Hermione's eyes widened and she stood abruptly from her throne, "Wh – What?"

"What do you say?" Riddle pressed, giving her a dazzling smile.

She tilted her head, then proclaimed, "Very well, Tom. I will marry you."

The room spun causing Draco to lean heavily against a golden column to his left. The ringing in his ears momentarily blared loud enough to cancel out any other surrounding noise, not unlike an explosion.

"Your Majesty!" Minerva gasped.

"It can't be done," Snape growled.

The crowd erupted into an uproar; half of them were cheering for the charming commoner while the other half threatened their queen against dirtying her heaven-sent bloodline.

"Silence." She snapped. "I don't want to hear any of it. I have a meeting with my council this afternoon and once they meet my dear Tom, they will understand the error of their harsh demands."

"But – but it's so sudden, don't you want some time to think it over?" Minerva stammered.

Snape's lips curled into an ugly look of disgust, "The council's demands are _law_. They cannot be so easily undone."

Hermione held up a hand to once again silence her advisors.

"I've made up my mind. Laws can be changed, and this one will be."

She stormed out of the throne room through a back entrance after giving Riddle a deep curtsy and disappeared just as the chaos reached its full potential. Among the hundreds of shouting and scurrying people, Riddle stood inexplicably still in the center of the room with a mischievous smirk.

His eyes bore into Draco's from across the room, following his movement as he tore through the tumultuous crowd and dove toward the door Hermione had gone through just before it slammed shut with a deafening thud.

Once on the other side, the noise level diminished entirely with the only sound he could make out now being that of Hermione's heels clacking against the ancient stone. She was still accompanied by her usual two close guards, but Draco was growing quite good at following stealthily behind.

There was a sharp corner up ahead and Draco took the prime opportunity to dart forward and pull her back, away from her guards and into a side door. It slammed shut behind them and he swiftly bolted it for good measure.

It took everything in him not to shake her and cry and demand that she snap the fuck out of whatever spell Riddle had cast over her.

Her eyes – normally such a warm, dark brown with flecks of amber; so nurturing and alluring – were glossed over, and her pupils dilated like that of a predatorial cat ready to pounce. Except there was no life in her eyes.

Draco knew he was still bound to silence and unable to do much of anything for her in his muggle body. There was a moth-eaten old chair in the corner of the room which he promptly picked up and slammed into the bare wall with such brute force that the chair snapped into a thousand splinters. The sound reverberated off of the walls, competing with the ringing in his head for most destructive noise.

"Draco?"

Her voice was but a whisper, a tremor, but it sent shockwaves throughout his entire body.

He whipped around to see her large, innocent chestnut eyes gaping at him.

"What's the matter?" She crept toward him, like a hunter toward a lone deer, "Is everything alright? Why are we here?"

She looked around the empty, abandoned room and so did he. He didn't recall seeing this room marked on the map, but it must have been because although it was covered in a layer of dust there were several shoeprints trailing along the floor that looked to be no more than a few days old.

With narrowed eyes and an incurable itch of curiosity, Draco followed the trail and nearly leapt back and knocked over Hermione when he saw new steps appear where the trail had previously ended. Hermione's hands were gripping so tightly to his own that if he wasn't so fearful for what they had just locked themselves in the room with, he might have been afraid of losing his hand.

There was no one else in the room, but the shoeprints continued to appear. They walked around and around, frightening both of them, and speeding up as they came closer.

Oh, how he wished he had his wand right now.

Then, the steps ran towards them and Hermione's screams pierced through the air as a cloud of dust enveloped both of them.

They were falling into a great abyss with a horrifying speed.

In the pitch black surrounding them, a grotesque animal with great white tusks and pink feathers strode carelessly around as if gravity was only in defiance for Draco and Hermione and that it was perfectly normal for the great beast to be strolling about at this time of day.

His roar created a ripple of sound waves that were not only visible, but also transformed into actual waves like that of the great sea. Hermione sputtered helplessly and it occurred to Draco that she might not be able to swim and so he paddled as fast as he could against the monstrous waves to take her in his arms.

He brushed her damp curls from her face and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before wrapping a secure arm around her waist and continuing to fight against the waves. They were unrelenting, but so was he. Draco wanted to take back everything he had previously wished when watching her flirt with Riddle.

She was worth much more to him than his soul, and it didn't at all matter to him if he couldn't have her. Well, no that wasn't true, it entirely _did_ matter. It mattered very fucking much, but he realized that one person couldn't simply have another – couldn't _own_ another. It meant more to love them and be loved by them.

If he couldn't be loved by her, so be it. But he vowed from that moment on that she would never know a day that he didn't love her.

The rapid onslaught of waves suddenly vanished, and Draco found himself kneeling over Hermione, caressing her face just as he had under the firelight that morning.

_Are you alright? Please, please be alright_, his eyes pleaded with her.

She smiled weakly up at him, "I'm fine, Draco. Thank you."

Though, their oddly psychedelic trip wasn't quite over yet. He wondered for a brief moment if he'd been off with his calculations and his soul had in fact already been reclaimed by Riddle. Perhaps this was to be the hellish limbo he was destined to spend the rest of eternity in. With Hermione in peril and a sinking feeling in his stomach. Draco wasn't sure if he could handle much more of it, much less an eternity.

He held out a hand to her, _Can you get up?_

Hermione nodded and put her hand firmly in his, then leaned against him as they stood. His hand brushed over her head and held her close. Standing taller than her, Draco could see their new surroundings over her head which was buried in his chest.

The vast gardens were a stark contrast from the storm they'd just escaped, but he didn't trust it any more so. There was something… wrong… about the beautiful flowers and perfect weather. It reminded him of the image of young Riddle, how he appeared as an angel sent to answer her prayers (which Draco largely attributed to _his_ stolen voice) but was more likely to be the devil incarnate within.

When her heaving and crying stopped, Hermione pulled away from his chest and wiped furiously at the tears streaming down her cheeks. She wandered away to admire the nearest bed of flowers and before he could charade some way to warn her against their potential danger, she knelt in her skirts beside a perfectly bloomed white rose.

The second her dainty fingers stroked the soft petals, they wilted. Then, the entire bed of flowers wilted as well, and it spread instantaneously across the entire garden. Hermione leapt back and spun to face Draco with the most apologetic look that it was impossible for him to be mad at her.

In the distance, a wildfire started.

It spread… well, like wildfire… and destroyed everything in its path, then raced across the gardens to its left and right until Hermione and Draco were surrounded by a ring of fire, creeping dangerously closer and closer.

"Oh, my god, what have I done?" She exclaimed.

Draco reached out a hand to take hold of her, but she backed away fervently.

"No! I need to take care of this. I did this. You need to… I don't know! Find somewhere safe!"

He couldn't help but gesture to the wall of fire threatening to engulf them from every angle and hang his head, _Where exactly do you think I can go?_

"Ah! This is all my fault." She clawed at her face in agony, but then when her frantic eyes met his, he saw her expression shift in a sudden dawning. "That's exactly it. It's all my fault. I touched the flower… the _white rose_. I defiled it."

He watched in despair as she held up her hands to the sky and began confessing her sins and reciting prayer. Draco felt a bit sorry for her, seeing as how he didn't entirely agree with her beliefs, but didn't have the heart to interrupt.

If this was how she wanted to spend their possible last moments, so be it. He shut his eyes as the flames drew nearer again and tried only to think of the burning sensation as if it were only her lips on his.

Then, just as suddenly as the waves vanished, the fire did too.

A fog washed over them as menacingly as the sea had, and Draco whipped around and around trying to find Hermione between the dense clouds. He opened his mouth to scream her name, to beg for her to come back to him, but nothing came out.

"Draco!"

He spun toward her voice, stumbling along the rocky path beneath his feet and willed himself to reach her.

"Draco, where are you?" She cried out again, only this time it felt as if she was coming from an entirely different direction.

He wandered aimlessly around and jolted backwards, barely regaining his footing, as an arrow struck the earth where he had previously been standing. The fog cleared to reveal an army, clad in black reflective armor, racing towards him. To his left and right emerged – literally sprouting from the ground like daisies – several soldiers in shining red attire. Though they had no facial features, which was revolting on its own, they looked to Draco as if waiting for a command.

From above, clutching onto a winged lion, Hermione was shouting at him; from how raspy and desperate her voice sounded, he imagined she'd been trying to get his attention for some time.

"There's a sword at your feet. Draco! The sword!"

Technically speaking, Draco had never wielded a sword. Sure, he'd had his fair share of handling wands, and even small knives, when dueling, but never had he had to fight with such a massive weapon. But how different could it really be?

Immensely different.

In fact, so different that after aggressively swinging it towards the men that Hermione instructed him to watch out for, he realized he would have to find a more suitable weapon or he would never survive this battle ground.

A massive brute was coming up from behind him and by some chance of luck, the sword buried itself in his chest and he fell with a thunderous sound that shook the earth beneath his feet.

"Draco! Look out, behind you!"

Fists ready, he took on his next foe with hand-to-hand combat. A blow to the head. A terrifying rip as his shoulder dislocated itself from its socket. A cut lip – and a stolen onyx knife. But a victory.

At least with that guy. Fuck this was rough.

"You!" Hermione shouted from above, pointing to one of his red-suited brethren. "Flank left. Yes. Now you – yes you, who else? – take three men with you and flank right. Stay low. Watch out for arrows."

Hermione was a natural-born leader, and her instructions kept his men advancing without dropping in numbers nearly as much as they had in the beginning. Soon enough, with constant commands from above, Draco and his faceless men were diminishing the enemy's army with rapid success.

The last of their men was murdered as Draco buried his glinting glass-knife in his eye socket.

"Draco!"

Kneeling beside the black armored body, Draco turned to see what she was warning him about but realized with a sickening feeling that no matter how fast he dug the knife out of the dead-man's head, or even threw his arms up in defense, it would not be quick enough for the jousting spear aimed right at his head.

How had they missed one? How had he been so naïve to think he could survive this bloody battle without magic?

The winged lion swooped down with a thunderous speed and he watched in horror as Hermione leapt off of his back on onto the back of the enemy threatening to end his life. The beast of a man crumpled beneath her with his limbs splayed in grotesque fashion.

Hermione stood and dropped the needle-sharp pin from her hand with a definitive clatter and raced over to where Draco knelt. He took her in his arms and buried his face in her warm neck, feeling the thumping of her pulse against his cheek.

. . .

_24 September 1455_

_7:40 pm_

"What do you mean Hermione is _missing_?" Pansy hissed.

Daphne gave her a sympathetic frown, "I mean she's missing. Nobody knows where she is."

She scoffed, "What about Dean and Roger? That's quite literally their only job."

"They haven't seen her since she stormed out of the Throne Room hours ago. Apparently, she was with them one second and then gone the next." Daphne sighed and fluffed her skirts in a nervous habit as she relayed this information.

Pansy still couldn't believe it, "This is ridiculous. We should be searching the castle, the grounds, the whole bloody kingdom for her! Not having an assembly in the Throne Room."

Seamus, who had caught the end of their conversation as he approached, nodded and gently rested his hand on the sword at his side. "I agree."

"Seamus," Daphne breathed in a sigh of relief. "Any news?"

"No, ma'am, I'm afraid not." He lamented.

Pansy pinched the bridge of her nose, then pulled at one of two of the younger kitchen staff members who were in a hushed conversation to their right.

"You two," she said. "What do you know? What was the last thing that happened to the queen?"

The two trembled under her glare, but the taller of the two mumbled a response.

"Speak up," Pansy snapped.

"Her Majesty was receiving commoners in the Throne Room as per custom for a Monday morning, Lady Parkinson and… well…" He trailed off, toying with his dirty crescent nails.

"For the love of…" Pansy inhaled and exhaled, calming herself, then began again in a serious but slow voice. "What. Happened."

"Her Majesty was talking with a young man,"

"A handsome one." The bedraggled girl beside him cut in.

"Yes, and he was proposing that he would be a suitable king consort for Her Majesty - "

"Absurd," Seamus commented.

" – and Her Majesty accepted his offer. Then she stormed off."

Pansy blinked. Repeated his story in her head. Blinked again. Then erupted.

"SHE WHAT?"

"She was in a hurry and - "

"No, bloody hell, the other part." She seethed.

The girl spoke up again, "Her Majesty accepted the stranger's offer. She demanded that he be her king consort, ma'am."

Daphne was breathing hard, short breaths in and out, and fanning herself. Seamus turned to help her by allowing her to lean on him.

"DID SHE SAY WHY?" Pansy roared, eyes blazing at the two before her.

"No – no, ma'am." He stammered.

"Go," Pansy instructed, turning her back to them after shoving two silver coins in each of their rough hands.

They scampered away, leaving the three of them to stare at each other in disbelief. Then, Harry appeared at Pansy's side with Neville in tow.

"Hermione's missing?" He exclaimed. "I just heard."

"Yes, apparently so." Pansy supplied with crossed arms.

Harry ran a hand through his messy raven hair and added, "Mistress Minerva's up on the dais. She's preparing to lead a conference with the rest of the council members. We should get going so that we can see if she has any update."

"Or a bloody plan," she murmured.

He nodded, then gestured for them all to move from the Great Hall and toward the Throne Room.

"Wait," Daphne said, regaining her speech. "Did you say Minerva's leading the meeting?"

"Yes." Harry confirmed.

Daphne and Pansy exchanged a wary glance, which prompted Neville to question what was so significant about that fact.

"Well," Daphne started. "Normally, given the circumstances of an absent monarch, the role of leadership typically falls to the Regent or the High Council, not merely the Queen's advisor."

"It's peculiar." Seamus noted.

In the Throne Room, the group moved to stand in front of the dais and took the scene in before them before Pansy shook her head and brought up a disturbing point.

"What's peculiar is that both the Regent and Queen are missing, and yet, the High Council chose to let Minerva lead the meeting still."

Harry frowned, not understanding, but once again it was Neville who spoke up.

"What's peculiar about that?"

"In all my years," Pansy answered. "I have never known a man of power, especially one like the High Council, to give up a position of leadership that was rightfully and lawfully his. The very fact that he sits so casually to the side is odd."

. . .

_24 September 1455_

_7:45 pm_

When Draco pulled away from her and opened his eyes his saw only splintered wooden bars. Sitting up and coughing from a layer of dust that had glued itself to the back of his throat, he realized upon seeing the broken chair on the far side of the room that they were back in the abandoned room they started this nightmarish dream in.

How long had they been out for? Hours? Days…?

Panic bubbled in his chest, preparing to boil over, as Draco worried that he had just wasted so much time in that bizarre world that he would miss his deadline. That his soul would belong to Riddle for all eternity.

For the first time in a long time, which made his heart ache with guilt, Draco thought of his parents and his friends. What would they think of what he'd done and how would they cope?

Then his mind drifted – as it always did – to Hermione. He would probably never see her again, unless Riddle decided he wanted to possess her too, and the thought of that alone made him violently sick.

His eyes flickered to the floor and what he saw made him light-headed.

There were no shoeprints scattered among the dusty floor, but there was a glowing, scarlet-red stone.

"Is that…?" Hermione whispered, her voice trailing off in quiet amazement.

_Was it?_ He wondered.

In the back of his mind he grew suspicious – likely a side effect of the torturous trip they'd just woken up from – of the reality of not only its existence, but its presence in the room since it certainly hadn't been there before.

Draco started to sit up and gravitate toward it but then his vision blurred; his skin burned from deep within and his head erupted in a blinding pain.

There was a brief moment of relief as his body gave up and he crumpled to the floor. In the back of his mind, he was acutely aware of how truly inevitable this moment had been. How had he been so foolish? So naive?

Still, when her voice rang through the muffled roaring in his ears, – "No! _No!"_ – he knew it had been worth it. Whatever the price was. She was worth it.

Someone was screaming.

No.

No, _he_ was screaming.

A deeply disturbing cackle carried across the room.

"You're too late!"

Riddle stood in the open doorway with his lips twisted into an evil, maniacal grin.

The bloodcurdling pain deteriorated into a dull ache, spanning over his spent muscles as the spasms ceased.

"YOU'RE TOO LATE!"

And then… darkness.

. . .

**A/N - **Ahh well done to all of you that correctly predicted handsome Tom. From the next chapter on you will see _The Little Mermaid_ plot influences lessen as the story begins to take on a different plot arch. Thank you to everyone who has followed and given feedback so far, I immensely appreciate it :)

Also, if you PM or review with what you think the "trials" Hermione and Draco were symbolic of - what they were really fighting - and you are correct, I will give a special shout out in the next chapter or so!


	7. The Deliverance

**A/N - **Ah thank you to everyone who has provided such kind words and chosen to continue following this story. I have a few important remarks that I need to make before you start reading this chapter.

1\. **Trigger warning: character death(s) **occur in this chapter so please feel free to PM me if you need to know what/how/why/who before reading, thank you!

2\. I will be out of town next week on holiday for my birthday so the next chapter will be posted the week after (19th Oct)

3\. There have been some concerns regarding our beloved royal couple, but I guarantee there will be a HEA for Dramione

That's all! Happy reading darlings

. . .

_**Chapter 7 – The Deliverance**_

. . .

_24 September 1455_

_7:45 pm_

When Hermione was learning to ride, she often fell off her horse. This was because she was not the most agile and balanced human being (as Minerva would so-often remind her). One of the times she fell off, she was subsequently trampled on and suffered a pretty horrendous concussion that took weeks to recover from.

The endless waves of nausea and agonizing migraines were among the worst of the symptoms because they were persistent and incurable in their pain.

Waking up from the psychedelic trip with Draco fostered similar symptoms. The floor was hard beneath her spine, and a loose nail in the floorboards was digging into her ribcage, but Hermione welcomed the stillness of the position and regretted leaving it the minute she sat up.

A searing pain shot up the forefront of her skull and insisted that she lie back down immediately. Hermione – as usual – was not inclined to listen to demands at the moment even if they were from her logical subconscious. Instead, she leaned against the wall for support and swallowed the bile that rose up her throat for the sake of maintaining whatever autonomy she had over her exhausted, aching body.

To her left, Draco stirred and began to survey the room as well. Both of their eyes were drawn to the palm-sized ruby sitting neatly in the center of the room. The precious stone seemed to be _glowing_; it was as if the jewel itself was emanating a radius of warmth and light.

But, of course, the logical side of her brain kicked into overdrive and told her keen senses that was she was looking at was not just some large, raw ruby meant to be cut into a darling necklace fit for, well, a queen. It informed her that she was in fact sitting – ok, leaning, definitely still leaning – less than a meter from the Philosopher's Stone. Which, understandably, made as much sense as everything else that just happened (so, really, how much more bizarre could today get?).

It hadn't been there _before_ the dream… nightmare… whatever.

Her vision may not be impeccable, but she was hardly blind. Besides, one would not often miss a priceless coveted magical artefact (she considered it magical on the basis that, according to her presumptions for a possibly logical explanation, it was the most likely culprit to the haunting wonderland she'd just endured; well, it was either that or _Draco_ dragged her through it, but from the look of mystification on his face, she opted to go with her former theory).

She couldn't believe the Philosopher's Stone really existed, much less that it was actually, truly sitting in the middle of the dusty floor within arm's reach.

"Is that…?" Hermione whispered, her voice trailing off in quiet amazement.

Draco's head shook minutely, and she could see the wrinkle of doubt forming in his dilated eyes. However, the second he was on his feet and moving toward it, he crumpled to the ground and began spasming uncontrollably; his body twitched and contorted as screams tore from deep within him.

"Oh, good. I'm just in time."

Hermione's head whipped around – resulting in a new wave of nausea… which was not at all pleasant or timely – to see none other than Tom Riddle standing in the doorway, relishing in the scene before him. His general physical features hadn't changed since he last stood before her, except now he wore a maniacal grin instead of a charming smile, and, if she was not mistaken, his voice was different.

"I was so hoping I would be able to witness this." His dark eyes shifted from Draco's writhing body to her on her hands and knees beside him. He continued with his grotesquely cheerful tone, but this time he was talking directly to her and not to himself. "It's not every day you get to see a man lose his soul you know."

His… his _what_?

Her internal train of thought snapped – any and all thoughts about the Stone's existence or validity gone – and all Hermione could think about was protecting Draco.

"No! _No!_"

His screams grew louder, ripping through his chest as his body slowly stopped convulsing; it wasn't a more comforting tradeoff. Riddle just went on laughing. The sound alone was enough to convince Hermione that he had something to do with this – with Draco's pain. There was no other explanation for how much pleasure he took in seeing him suffer so much.

"You're too late! YOU'RE TOO LATE!"

Suddenly, Draco's body went limp and he fell silent.

"Draco…" She whimpered, crawling towards him. "Draco?"

"Oh, no." Riddle said. "You're coming with me. I'm not finished with you, yet."

Icy-cold hands dug into the fabric of her gown, yanking her back, and then the skin around her neck, choking her. An arm then snaked around and replaced the hands around her neck, and while she wished that meant his hold on her might loosen, it strengthened and constricted her more; the pressure against her windpipe was enough to blur her vision and cut off her breathing, causing her to gasp desperately for air.

"So long, lover boy." Riddle called out before slamming the door closed behind them and leaving Draco to die.

Hermione fought against him as best as she could. Her nails clawed at his pale skin, but they didn't leave a single mark. Her feet kicked at his shins as he forced them down a dark corridor, but they never made contact. Luckily, Hermione managed to turn her head just enough to let much-needed air into her burning lungs.

Perspiration caused loose curls to stick to her neck and forehead as she desperately tried to free herself from the madman's death grip. There was a near-blinding light as he pushed their way through a door at the end of the corridor; she half-expected to be somewhere outside the castle walls based on the harshness of the light.

Instead, she sputtered with the horrible realization that he brought her into the Throne Room where they were surrounded by quite literally every abled-bodied person in the castle.

This must have been his plan all along.

He didn't just want to rule beside her, he wanted to rule _for_ her. He wanted to dispose of her. In a great spectacle, no doubt, given the extreme measures he'd gone to thus far. What she couldn't understand, was how he planned on surviving this act of treason? She wasn't invincible, she knew that, but murder of a monarch – especially in cold-blood – was not taken lightly in her kingdom. For instance, even if he did manage to kill her, she was certain he wouldn't make it out of the room before someone captured or killed him.

Riddle waved his hand and she watched in horror as all of her beloved people were frozen in place; their bodies were still as statues, but their eyes followed her and Riddle across the checkered marble floor.

He waved his hand again and half of the people in the front row were knocked over like they were merely pieces in his life-size game of chess. Then, Riddle threw her roughly onto the floor where they had been and took out a weapon from the back pocket of his breeches. Upon closer inspection, Hermione finally caught a glimpse of a slender, carved piece of wood and the realization of its existence dawned on her. A wand.

He was a wizard.

_He was a wizard._

Then, all at once, Hermione had a sinking feeling that Snape had been right: magic still did exist and it was very much still a threat.

Hermione – the only other mobile body in the room aside from Riddle – looked around in horror at the scene before her. Among those that had been knocked over by the last flick of his wrist were Pansy, Daphne, Harry and Neville. The frozen expressions on their faces telling her the fear they held for her safety and angry they were to witness, even for one millisecond, Riddle mishandling their queen and friend. Elsewhere in the crowd of watchful statues were hundreds of familiar faces: loyal handmaids, her favorite chefs, grooms with a great sense of humor, noblewomen she came to know at the recent set of dances and actually grew to like. Their expressions told her how shocked and afraid they were for not only her life, but their own. Then, craning her neck to get a better view of the dais behind her, Hermione saw Minerva leading what must have been a mandatory meeting with none other than the Council (all of it, not just her secret, privy council) seated at a long table behind her. Minerva's expression was the worst of them all and nearly tore her heart in two.

Riddle, however, seemed relaxed if a little impatient. His dark eyes wandered about the room, but she could tell from his micro-expressions that he had not been affected by their aguish and fear the same way she had. His furrowed brow spawned disapproval while his curled lip radiated contempt. Disgustingly, he seemed _pleased_ with the outcome.

"Now…" Riddle drawled, traipsing around her as she struggled to pull herself up on her hands and knees. "Don't take this personally. My hatred for your kind has so much more to do with the crown above your head and less so to do with the man, or woman, I suppose… this time… who wears it."

There was no time for her to even attempt to decipher his endless speeches so, really, why did she bother anymore? She had plenty enough to worry about besides his dreadfully puzzling word choice.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to tell me where the Philosopher's Stone is, and don't bother pretending like you don't know what I'm talking about, I find it not only a waste of time, but also incredibly rude." He went on.

Hermione coughed, "I – I - "

"Hm," he mused. "What did I just say about wasting my time, you insipid little girl."

He turned his back to her and addressed the room full of people, "Your queen is beyond saving and, while I value none of your lives, now is not the time and place for your deaths. Oh, don't worry, muggles! I will come back for you! Yes, unfortunately, none of you will be alive to see the snow hit the ground this winter. Though, I don't expect you all to simply head my warning without example. So, let me be crystal clear: you are no threat to me."

He raised one of his hands which caused Hermione to instantly recoil, but when nothing happened, she dared to open her eyes and let out a raspy, throat-burning scream. Roger, no longer frozen, was hovering midair and choking.

"Leave him alone!" She begged.

"_Tsk-tsk_." Riddle chastised. "You don't get to make demands anymore."

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Roger's neck snapped, and he fell with a bone-crushing thud to the floor.

Hermione opened her mouth to wail but nothing came out. Shaking uncontrollably, she wondered how on earth she was going to survive this. Hermione may have been well read, including the books on dark magic, but none of them could prepare her for this. None of them could make her a wizard. She was no match for him.

Riddle turned to face her with his dark eyes glinting.

"Let's try this one more time. Where are you hiding the Stone?" He bellowed.

"You think I have the Stone?" She croaked.

"Don't play stupid with me. I know it's here, and I know you know where. You don't want more of your people to end up like your beloved knight over there, do you? I have no problem with burning this castle to the ground until the Stone surfaces from the ashes, but that is really quite tedious, and I would much rather get what I came for and get going."

Hermione was absolutely certain that the object he so strongly desired had been in the same room as both of them just moments ago… so, why was he asking her where it was?

Then, it occurred to her, he hadn't seen it.

Or, more accurately, it hadn't presented itself to him. Just as it hadn't appeared to her and Draco before they emerged from the string of nightmares – which she was acutely aware must have been a way for the Philosopher's Stone to protect itself from those that wanted to acquire it – it wasn't visible to Riddle when he entered the room.

That's why he was dangling her in front of her people; to try and break her. He needed the leverage to get her to reveal its whereabouts and imagined that, since Draco was incapacitated, he would need to provide her with an incentive for not lying to him.

The arch of his beautiful dark eyebrow and the summon of Minerva – who was frozen, standing in the foremost position on the dais which indicated her respectable standing with Hermione – were enough to prove her theory correct.

"Wait!" She pleaded. "I'll – I'll tell you where it is."

Minerva started screaming; her body writhing in pain.

"Better hurry up and spit it out then, darling." He warned.

"It's – It's," she swallowed the sickness rising in the back of her throat and tried to think of a plausible lie but couldn't.

"It's here."

Minerva dropped to the floor, but Hermione was relieved to see her chest rise and fall before bringing her attention to the new voice in the room. Draco – looking miraculously unscathed – stood in front of the crowd with his fist wrapped securely around the very object in question.

"No, Draco! Don't give it to him! Don't - "

"_Quiet_!"

Her cheek stung from the lash Riddle administered from a few meters away, but the blood dripping down her face was of little concern as she watched Draco stand before this mad, evil wizard.

"Hand it here, Princelet."

Draco stood defiantly, tense and poised. "Free Hermione. Then it's yours."

Riddle cackled, "I wasn't asking. Give it to me. _Now_."

His wand touched his left forearm, where it was marked with some kind of ink, as he incanted something under his breath in a language she didn't recognize in the slightest. Instantaneously, Draco's feet dragged him across the floor toward Riddle as he clutched his own arm in agony and desperately tried to conceal the stone at the same time.

"Since you are stubbornly still alive, I suppose I'll have to change my plan. We're going back to _your_ kingdom, Princelet." Riddle taunted.

In the back of her mind, several alarms went off. Not only was Draco able to talk again – and with the same voice that Riddle had once spoken to her with which was in itself mind-boggling – but also, he was supposedly some prince with his own kingdom?

Draco groaned in anguish; Hermione could see him trying to fight Riddle's dark magic with every fiber in his being, but she was damned if she was going to let this evil sorcerer get ahold of this precious family jewel and use it for God knows what.

Destruction, hundreds of thousands of her people dead and her beautiful kingdom reduced to rubble and ash flashed before her eyes.

"Now, let's get going." Riddle said impatiently as the stone – unwillingly extended from Draco's hand – hung in the air between them.

With all of the energy she had left, Hermione lurched for it and found herself, once again, falling into nothingness. After several nauseating twists and flips, feeling as if her body itself was being torn apart, she hit the hard earth and gasped as the wind was knocked out of her.

Slowly righting herself, Hermione took in her surroundings.

At a general glance, the square that she'd just been unpleasantly transported to seemed like any other: cobblestone streets, townspeople milling about, and specialty shops. However, upon closer inspection, Hermione was able to see evidence of the magical world that she'd just arrived in: the carts pulling themselves down the cobblestone streets, the townspeople dressed in the most peculiar fashion and all sporting billowing robes and uniquely carved wands, the shops specializing in broom sales, wand repair, and potion-making.

The commotion of the sudden appearance of her, Riddle and Draco from thin air caused most of the witches and wizards to cease strolling through the shops. After a unanimous intake of breath, half of them ran from the square or simply vanished with a loud crack, while the other half shouted various shocking realizations, pointing at Draco.

Riddle, who paid no attention to the townspeople nor to Hermione who landed quite a good distance away from the him, directed his wand at Draco, sending him flying into a store window and shattering the glass. Then, he aimed it at the sky and, again, incanted something Hermione couldn't understand. The sky immediately darkened and grew stormy; a human skull with a snake slithering out of its mouth appeared in smoke-form.

Draco threw himself behind the showcase of the store and occasionally popped back up to spout what Hermione could only presume to be offensive spells at Riddle between ordering the few people left in the square to disperse and take cover. Though, to her and his surprise, flashes of light were shot at Riddle from among the crowd. It appeared as though, instead of cowering and running away, their first instinct was to _fight_.

"It's Prince Draco!" She heard someone yell. "Send word to the King and Queen! Their son has returned!"

Riddle sneered, "Yes, do fetch the King and Queen." Then, sending glass and rocks toward Draco, continued on taunting him as the lights in the streets flickered and roared with disturbing green flames. "There's nowhere for you to run now, Princelet. Hand over the Philosopher's Stone now and I promise your beloved muggle queen's death will be swift and merciful."

"Liar!"

A green spark from Riddle's wand met with a blazing red one from Draco's but broke off and blasted a hole through the statue that Hermione was currently crouched behind. Her muscles tensed as she prepared to sprint to Draco but was pulled back and shoved roughly against the charred stone of the statue.

"Hey! Hey!" A boy said defensively, immediately letting go of her arm and backing away to a safe distance where her flying fists couldn't connect with his pretty face. "I'm here to help, I promise!"

"Who the hell are you?" She questioned. "Where _am_ I?"

"You're the muggle queen, right?" He began warily.

Her eyes narrowed at him, not willing to trust anyone in this strange world besides Draco. He sighed and tucked his wand into the back of his breeches, then regarded her not unlike one would with a wild, feral animal that had just been cornered.

"You can trust me. My name is Theo." The boy went on. "I'm a friend of Draco's."

"How can I be sure of that?" She challenged. "How am I supposed to trust that this isn't some trick and you're on Riddle's side."

The boy – Theo – looked frantically around for a moment before retrieving his wand and producing a miniature recreation of her fluffy feline.

"You followed this… _thing_… into the forest a few days ago. It was the first time Draco – and I – laid eyes on you." He admitted.

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, finally prioritizing the questions buzzing through her mind. "How is that supposed to prove your loyalty to him?"

He groaned, then raked a hand through his hair. "Listen, we really don't have time for this. I'm trying to save not only my closest friends, but my entire home right now. So, are you coming with me, or not?"

"How do you expect me to help you? I'm – I mean – I can't - "

"Yes. Yes, I'm well aware, hence why I referred to you earlier as the _muggle_ queen. Merlin's beard, it's no wonder you and Draco get along so well, you're both stubborn and hard of hearing."

"I - "

"Listen, any minute now Riddle is going to realize that not only has he accidentally apparated you here, but also that he has _misplaced_ you here. I can guarantee that is not going to bode well for you, Little Queen. In fact, he is not entirely fond of your kind and, to put it lightly, a slow and agonizing torture of you would serve as good leverage to persuade Draco in handing over the Stone. Personally, I don't want that to happen. So, I give you one last chance to join me in my futile attempt to save your precious prince and his kingdom."

Hermione blinked at the audacity the boy possessed and nodded numbly.

"Great, let's go."

He led her away from the square – currently erupting in flashes of red and green light – and down a dark path that opened up into a heavily wooded area. The trees were enormous, easily towering over Hermione, with their trunks nearly five times her size; there were screeches from animals she couldn't see which only made her more uneasy in this mystical land.

Though, there were some similarities to the forest which suddenly jolted in her memory and told her that she was not that far from her own castle and kingdom after all (though, knowing from cartographs, the Forbidden Forest went on for acres and acres so there was really no telling where she was within its hooded canopy – and that was assuming she was still on the same physical plane that she knew existed and not a portion hidden from her world's knowledge).

She stumbled after Theo, her smaller feet struggling to navigate the horrendous terrain of the forest floor while his glided by the protruding roots and moss-covered boulders with ease and familiarity.

"Where are we going?" She panted.

Theo spun around and sighed at her attempting to keep up with him; her heavy, velvet skirts were weighing down her petite frame while her decorative shoes were severely ill-fitted for the sodden, muddy earth. The plentiful of curls shaping her delicate face felt more frazzled and wilder than usual, and her cheeks and lungs burned as the adrenaline rush slowly subsided.

He regarded her bemusedly, "You are incredibly small. Would you consider yourself the average size of a muggle woman?"

"What?"

"Well, I could hardly believe that other women are of the same stature as you, Little Queen. I mean, it's no wonder you can't keep up." He snaked an arm around her waist, whispered a few charms at her feet which instantaneously resulted in her feeling much more comfortable and energetic, then went on. "It must be so disorienting for your people to be ruled by someone so small. Do you have to stand on a stool to get their attention? Does your crown, or simply a heavily bejeweled necklace, ever weigh you down?"

Hermione shook her head at his outward ponderance, but she managed a reply as he helped her move more quickly through the forest. "Oh, yes, I'm most definitely the smallest… muggle. In fact, I'm but three centimeters from legally being titled a dwarf."

"Are you really?" He said, a gleam reflecting off of his pale blue eyes.

She scoffed, "No, Theo. That was sarcasm. I imagine you do have that sort of thing in this magical realm?"

His smile, however, didn't falter. "Oh, what a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect you to be so sassy, Little Queen."

"You know," she said between labored breaths, her energetic spurt already running out. "I have a name. It's - "

He waved his free hand, "None of my concern."

The heavy forest opened up to a hidden pasture where they came up to an old, tiny cottage which had clearly seen better days. Theo shouted something at the door which then clicked and unlocked, swinging open of its own accord to allow them entrance.

Hermione did not personally have a lot of experience with death, but she knew the smell of a decaying body when it hit her the moment she stepped over the threshold. It was impossible for her to make out anything in the pitch-black room so, she hesitated by the door, fearing wandering unknowingly into the dark (her imagination couldn't even _begin_ to fathom what magical horrors might exist).

"Lumos," whispered Theo, and a light cast from the end of his wand to fill two lanterns.

In the dim lighting, Hermione could finally make out the contents of the room. She was taken aback by how surprisingly claustrophobic the cottage was; from her position she could easily see the entirety of the single-room space. To her right there were bookshelves lined with hundreds of jars of all sizes containing everything from mandrake tongue to gillyweed (which she only knew because of the scripted labels). On the far end there were two ornate armchairs facing with one another with none other than a tray of tea and biscuits between them. In the center of the room was an enormous cauldron (which supplied her with a new fear of being boiled alive as it could easily fit two of her).

What took Hermione most by surprise and sent chills down her spine despite the stifling heat were the two bodies strewn on the floor. There was one of an older man, bent so unfortunately that she was certain the smell of decaying flesh was from him. Her hands went up to cover her mouth, desperately trying not to breathe in the foul odor, as she tentatively stepped further into the room to get a closer look at the other body.

The boy, similar in age to both her and Theo, was clearly very attractive. His ebony skin sheen from a layer of sweat, but his features extremely beautiful even with the perspiration. A sickly feeling knotted itself in the pit of Hermione's stomach as she stood between him and the cauldron.

"Blaise!" Theo shouted, kneeling down beside the unconscious boy. "Blaise come on. Wake up, _wake up_."

There was a slew of more incantations which Hermione either perceived as him saying "a piece key" or "up is key", but whatever it was Theo was doing to the boy must have been working because he moaned and started to stir.

"Hang in there, buddy. Don't go dying on me now or I swear to Godric I will kill you myself!" Theo begged. Then, he craned his neck up to make eye contact with Hermione. "I am genuinely surprised that you haven't fainted yet, Little Queen. Perhaps, you'll prove yourself useful after all." His eyes flickered purposefully over to the wall of vials and jars. "See if you can find some - "

"What's this?" Hermione interrupted. Her eyes wandered from the boy regaining consciousness – apparently called Blaise – to the ashen contents of the cauldron where she noticed there was a lone leather-bound book that seemed to have withstood any damage from whatever fire had previously been lit. "A diary?"

Theo was muttering under his breath, probably taking back any compliment he'd ever given her, but she was too intrigued by the book to pay him any attention. She flipped to the first page to see the inscription _This Diary Belongs to Tom Marvolo Riddle_. However, suddenly the handwritten letters of Riddle's name stood out to her in the most peculiar way and she was reminded of how, when he'd introduced himself to her in her Throne Room, he'd given her his full name with a particular knowing smirk.

He'd underestimated her.

But Hermione was firstly extremely well read on the history of her kingdom (as a leader ought to be, right?) and secondly tremendously gifted with puzzles.

"Riddle is Lord Voldemort." She whispered, then repeated at a shout. "Riddle is Lord Voldemort!"

If she expected Theo to doubt her, scream obscenities – which she was quickly learning he was quite fond of – or react strongly in any way, she was sorely disappointed since all he did was let out an exasperated sigh as he levitated Blaise's body from the floor. He fixed her with a sympathetic look.

"I know," he lamented.

She blinked, "What do you mean, _you know_?"

Theo directed Blaise's body through the short doorway, then ducked as he exited, beckoning for her to follow him out of the stuffy cottage. Hermione shoved the diary into her skirt pocket (she specifically instructed that all of her gowns and dresses be altered to provide her with discreet pockets on either side of her layered skirts) and stumbled after the lanky figure.

"I did some research on Riddle after Blaise was taken by his snake - "

She cut in, "Blaise was taken _by a snake_?"

He sighed again. "Seriously? You apparated into the magical kingdom and have seen innumerable breaks in your known reality and _that's_ what you're stuck on? The fact that Blaise was effectively kidnapped by a snake?"

Hermione pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "Never mind. You were saying?"

"Right. So, Blaise was taken by Riddle's snake." He paused and pointedly glanced sideways at her, but she lifted her arms innocently and almost lost her footing against the twisting roots in the process. "I was only bitten, and even though I fully healed, it took more potions than should've been necessary. I knew Blaise would be in trouble, and consequently, Draco after making that idiotic deal with Riddle in the first place, but I figured if I'm going to go storming into the evil lair, I really should have an idea of what I'm getting myself into."

"Naturally," she nodded.

"That's when I found out who Riddle really was." The somber expression that fell across his face reminded Hermione that this mad sorcerer must have wreaked as much havoc on his own people as he did on hers.

"We'll get him," she assured him, trying to convey strength in her voice despite not feeling very strong.

"I fucking hope so, Little Queen."

When the two – or three, technically speaking – made it back to the town square, it looked immensely different than when they left it. There was considerable damage to all of the buildings, with some even reduced to rubble and ash, while the streets themselves were littered with glass, various objects likely expelled from the shops, and bodies. Seeing the dead witches and wizards struck a nerve somewhere deep in Hermione, and she turned to Theo with lips in a tight line and eyes filled with fury.

"What's your plan, Theo?"

"Well," he swallowed. "Riddle isn't really alive, or he isn't yet. He tried to channel his lifeline through Blaise in some dark magic voodoo where he gets stronger as Blaise gets weaker. I imagine that if Blaise dies, then Riddle will successfully resurrect." He gestured to Blaise's body – now hovering behind them in the alleyway – "Hence why it was so important for us to rescue him."

"So… it's likely that the reverse is true, too, then? If Riddle dies, then Blaise lives?" Hermione questioned.

Theo nodded. "Right. I think so."

Her eyebrows lifted disbelievingly, "You _think_ so? Theo!"

"Hey!" He replied. "It's the best plan I have, ok? All we have to do is bring Blaise back to his usual abundantly-animated, people-pleasing self and then BAM, Riddle is dead. Like, _dead_ dead."

"Again, how am I supposed to help?"

"Unfortunately, Little Queen, I don't think you can. I would certainly need strong magic, more than just my own, to bring him fully back." He said.

She frowned, "Yeah, ok."

Theo awkwardly patted her shoulder, "Just… Stay here, right? Stay safe or Draco will definitely find some way to have me secretly murdered if we survive this and you're less-than-perfect."

Then, he was dashing across the street with Blaise's body following suit. Hermione watched, a bit dejected since she felt useless – and she _hated_ to feel useless or uninformed – as Theo scurried further up the street to where it opened up into the square and several witches and wizards created a barrier between themselves and Riddle. While she couldn't make out their individual expressions to try and gauge how the plan was going, she was happy enough to distinguish a certain blond from the crowd.

He was crouched beside Theo, both of them showering Blaise's body with what she imagined to be very powerful healing charms. Next to him stood two very tall and distinct figures who seemed to be administering some sort of protective shield for the people behind them. Based on their platinum blonde hair and ethereal features – even from a distance, Hermione could see that they must be extraordinarily beautiful – it was impossible not to identify them as Draco's parents. The supposed King and Queen of magic.

It seemed to be working.

Riddle started faltering in his footsteps as he tried to advance on them, but their victory didn't last long. Within seconds of his sputtering and screaming in frustration, Riddle erupted and sent green flames rolling over the crowd of people willing to stand up to him. She expected the protective field to hold against his attack and was surprised to see that it didn't; however, the witches and wizards – including her precious prince – were not burned nor harmed in any way. Instead, the green flames seemed to cast a threatening shield itself around them, weakening them and bringing them to their knees in front of him.

"Pathetic," he spat. "You think you can hurt me? YOU THINK YOU CAN DEFEAT ME?"

Hermione noticed that even the dead were surrounded by the ugly flames and wondered why she had been spared when it seemed that everyone else in the vicinity had been affected. Literally every witch or wizard, alive or dead.

Then, it dawned on her.

She took a deep breath, readied herself for possible exposure, and darted across the street. Ducking behind a cabinet that hung halfway out of a shop, she peered through the broken glass of the storefront to try and find a plausible weapon for her suicide mission. There weren't many options in the silver store, unfortunately. A set of spoons? Hardly. A large vase? Not ideal. A box of buttons? Yeah, she was definitely going to die.

" – my followers proved themselves weak. They weren't cut out for the job, simply put. Was is truly too much to ask that they dare _look_ for a sign that I was still alive? After all, one does not split his soul just to die from one _stupid_, killing curse. How abhorrently wasteful and - "

Luckily, a new glimmer caught her eye atop a drawer she swore was empty only moments before. Her eyes lingered on the heavy and sturdy sword. Perfect. (Sure, she'd never wielded a sword before and honestly this wasn't the best time to figure out just how difficult it would be to wield one, but hey, she could hardly be picky right now seeing as her only other option was to charge at Riddle with a bloody spoon.)

The sword, though being half her height, was surprisingly light and easy to hold. She gripped it tightly in her hand, then tucked it behind her back as she stepped out of the shadows and into the lit square.

"Oh, Lucius Malfoy… Or, should I say _King Lucius_. Ugh." Riddle – or she supposed she may as well call him Lord Voldemort, seeing as that's who he really was – snarled. "Your family, your whole lineage, bares an unthinkable history, don't you think? Yet, no one even knows! I bet your prince, your precious heir, has no idea his family had ties with Lord Voldemort during the height of his supremacy, hm?"

Hermione made her way as silently as she could toward Riddle from his right side as he moved to his left to address Draco's father more intimately.

"Oh, yes, Princelet." He nodded encouragingly. "The Malfoy's were among my greatest supporters." – he paused to write his full name in the sky, then flicked his wand to allow the letters to rearrange themselves as Hermione's brain did earlier – "You see, Lucius, _I _am Lord Voldemort. And, rather unfortunate for you, I feel like I am owed a debt from your family. Many of my supporters' families managed to, quite literally, get away with murder but none like yours. How the Malfoy's managed to hold onto their _precious_ crown given their allegiance is beyond me."

Only a few more meters. _She could do this_, she reminded herself.

"For that, dear King, you will pay the ultimate price." Then, with a dramatic swoop of his wand, Riddle levitated King Lucius in his enclosure of green flames and shouted two words Hermione had never heard before, but would never forget. "_Avada Kedavra!"_

He went on cackling as the king's body fell to the stone floor, then began to levitate the beautiful woman beside Draco that could only be his mother, the queen of magic. Then, he pulled Draco from his hands and knees, holding both of them midair and still restricted from fighting back due to the sickly green flames engulfing them.

"Hand over the Philosopher's Stone, Princelet, or your beloved mother is next. Then, I'll find your disgusting muggle pet and drag her back here so you can watch her suffer for your resistance as well." Riddle proclaimed.

"Hey! Disgusting muggle pet, here." She called out, tearing his attention away from Draco and the others. "Come and get me, Riddle. Or, should I say Lord Voldemort? As it turns out, I feel like my family is owed a debt from _you._" Hermione lurched forward and swung the silver sword as hard as she could at Riddle's torso. Its blades dug deep into his armor, penetrating his skin, and she yanked it back out with enormous effort, prepared to swing it again.

However, much to her disbelief – and not Riddle's – there was no blood shed. His linen chemise was torn and hung loose, but there was not even a single mark on his pale skin beneath it. She gasped in horror and met his cold, dead eyes with mortal fear.

"_Imbecile_." He seethed.

Hermione bit her lip and held up the sword regardless of how imminent her death seemed in the moment.

"You want to die, don't you? Brainless… Dirty… _Muggle_." The last word dripped from his venomous mouth as his arm swung to cast a spell at her, sending her tumbling across the square to land just in front of Draco and Theo. She gulped down hot liquid building in her throat as Riddle sauntered over to her with a terrifying smile. "You think you of all people can hurt me? I'm untouchable."

He was right; nothing she did caused him any harm. Not when she dug her nails into his skin earlier, nor when she sank a _sword_ into his abdomen. But…how?

Riddle advanced on her, poison dripping from his fingertips and death reflecting from his eyes. "I'm going to end you, silly girl, and I'm going to make your precious prince watch."

"You're right." She admitted. "You're untouchable. The body you've created from your dark magic is perfect and impenetrable. That's the funny thing about life, though, is that there has to be a balance. There has to be moves and countermoves."

His mouth twitched, "What are you on about?" As his eyes narrowed and he leveled his wand to her head, ready to dispel immeasurable evil, Hermione's eyes flickered to the sword beside her. "That sword is _nothing_ compared to me. You are _nothing_ compared to me. I cannot be harmed."

Her hand gripped the hilt so tightly, her knuckles turned blue. "Your _body_ cannot be harmed." She clarified, then held up his mint-conditioned diary with her free hand. "But this can."

"Where did you – no – don't touch – YOU WORTHLESS - "

Riddle devolved quickly into bouts of agonizing screams and insults directed toward the very last person he imagined discovering the truth – or if not the whole truth, the integral nature – of his diary. However, she was less fazed by his string of threats the more she twisted the tip of the silver into the leather-bound book.

There was a single, blinding light followed by a loud boom and a dispersion of ash from what used to be Riddle's young and handsome body; though when Hermione squinted, she swore she could make out the enraged face of an elder man among the gust of grey.

In the silence that surrounded the square after Riddle vanished, Hermione felt the exhaustion hit her with a surmounting force. The sword fell from her delicate hand – bruised and covered in cuts – and clattered to the cobblestone floor. Seconds later, she followed suit.

"Whoa, careful there, Your Majesty." Draco said with a smile, catching her head in his skillful hands before it collided with the unforgiving pavement. His words enveloped her in a gentle, silky caress; his face lighting up as his smile broadened, drawing out his naturally striking features and making him appear softer and warmer. There were a few loose strands of silver, white hair that fell in his face, and Hermione desperately wanted to reach up and brush them aside but could not find the energy to do so. "Take a breath, Hermione. You're alright, everything's alright."

"Draco…" Her eyelids fluttered slowly open and closed, taking him in as best she could as she fought the pull of sleep. "Oh my god, Draco, your father - "

"Is dead." He cut in sharply. Hermione could see him fighting to control his micro-expressions and did not dare to continue talking about the subject, or even anything remotely despondent. There was so much damage and destruction before even beginning to think about how this evening's events took a toll on any of their mental and emotional well-being.

"So," she said in a significantly more optimistic tone, "You can talk?"

His thumb ran along her cheekbone, then her jaw, and he sighed contently. "Yes. It's… a long story, but one I'm happy to share with you when you're better." Then Draco gingerly shook his head, biting back laughter. "You're fine. I only meant your exhaustion. Which is understandable considering you took down _the _Lord Voldemort."

"Well, the enormous sword certainly helped." She forced a low chuckle.

Draco blinked, "What sword?"

Hermione stirred in his arms – only vaguely aware of how intimate and inappropriate their position on the floor was, but disregarded any concern for her reputation given the sheer pleasure of having this moment alone with him – and tried to look for the sword that must be hidden under her muddy, ripped skirts. "It was just here…" She murmured.

"Never mind, just rest, will you?" This time he permitted his laughter to escape from his sweet, strawberry-tasting lips. Hermione wanted to kiss those lips. She leaned in closer, willing to indulge herself by taking his lips between hers but was rudely interrupted.

"Where _is_ the Philosopher's Stone by the way?" She inquired, letting her eyes trail along the shape of his body. His chemise was covered in dirt and sweat, torn at the neckline revealing a hint of fine, silver chest hairs; it was impossible not to take notice of his well-defined chest and shoulders from her viewpoint. But other than his black trousers – which had also taken an enormous beating – there was no place to hide the coveted gem.

It definitely wasn't in his pockets; she would have noticed any bulge (aside from the one she caught herself thinking about at times when she almost certainly – her confessor would argue, almost always – shouldn't be thinking about it).

"Well hidden," he smirked, then nodded toward a corner shop – the very one she witnessed him getting thrown into hours ago – where she failed to see what he was hinting at. "See the dragon at the top? Where the name plate hangs above… well, what used to be a door."

Hermione tilted her chin up, but still didn't see the precious (stupid, war-starting) stone anywhere. "I see the dragon. I don't see the stone."

"No, you wouldn't. It's there, though. As I said, it's well hidden." He opened his mouth to explain following her favorite look of doubt and chestnut arched brow but was interrupted before he could get a single word out.

"Little Queen!" Theo hollered, shoving his face in her sheltered line of vision. "You really do keep surprising me, you know that? Godric, can't wait to see what you do next." His grin was genuine and bright compared to the solemn faces of the rest of his people. Hermione craned her neck to look between Theo and Draco – who were almost literally blocking her from the rest of the square – but was subsequently brought back to their attention by Theo's flair for the dramatics.

"Draco you should arrange to have her knighted or something after the stunt she pulled." He babbled. "Can you do that actually, hypothetically speaking – can you be a queen _and_ a knight? What would your proper title be… that being said I don't particularly care for that nonsense no matter how many times Blaise tries to force it on me… Sir Queen or Queen Sir, I wonder… oh, you have to meet Blaise, he's not the most interesting – I mean you've met me – but he has his moments… Draco you should also do something _romantic_, you know?" Then he directed a wicked grin toward Hermione. "Kiss the boy and all that, wouldn't you agree, Little Queen?"

"Theodore," Draco hissed, though Hermione could tell from his relaxed shoulders and soft expression that he was only slightly agitated by his close friend's presence.

"It's. _Theo_." The other blond growled back before dramatically shifting away, "Which you know perfectly well. Don't listen to him, he's only upset because I have this terrible gift of taking up all of the attention in any given room and he can't cope with it." – "Theo, that's not - " – "Sorry, not sorry, Your Petulant-Highness."

"THEO," Draco shouted, physically swatting him away. Once the boy finally left, wandering off to annoy some other poor soul, she theorized, Hermione arched a quizzical brow at Draco, but he simply waved it off. Apparently, Theo's behavior was not worth commenting on, which she had a good understanding of after spending time with him earlier.

"I suppose this all comes as a bit of a shock to you." Draco noted, helping her into a sitting position. To her amusement, he seemed genuinely nervous awaiting her response.

"Which part?" She teased softly. "The fact that magic is very much still practiced after all this time? That it existed almost literally right under my nose? That not only do you belong to it, but also you are also part of its royal family?" When he visibly gulped, she shouldered him playfully. "Relax, Draco, it's fine. Really."

He scoffed but smiled regardless. "It's commendable how well you're taking all this."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll have my manic fits later when the reality of it all fully settles in," she joked.

"You're tough as nails, Hermione." Draco said, eyes lingering on her which caused her cheeks to warm in response. The long-awaited kiss lingering in the little space between them once again interrupted.

"OH, BLOODY RIGHT SHE IS!" Theo cheered, reappearing at their side.

"THEODORE!" Draco yelled back. "Seriously?" He gestured to Hermione with a not-so-indiscreet nod of his head in her direction. "I've been mute for _days_ and the first chance I get to speak with Hermione, you have to insert yourself every other minute?"

"Hey!" He replied defensively, backing away theatrically before rolling his eyes at the beautiful, ebony boy next to him – whom Hermione immediately placed as the livelier presentation of Blaise – and nodding pointedly in Draco's direction as he went on. "Can you believe him?" Another scoff, then he faced Draco again and held up a wand. "I only came over here to give this back to you, Your Insufferable-Highness. I figured you also missed having _that_ the past few days."

"I - " Draco stammered and Hermione bit back a giggle. "Yes. Thank you." He turned to her, with some resemblance of color on his cheeks, and took her battered hands in his. "May I?"

Hermione nodded, eying the magical object with considerable curiosity, and patiently withheld any questions until after his procedure was over.

"_Episkey_," he whispered, and instantaneously the cuts and bruises began to heal, vanishing before her eyes. Hermione mentally noted what the word (re: spell) was called and what it did, then recalled that it must have been what she misheard Theo chanting over Blaise's body earlier.

"Thank you," she said.

"Any time."

He leaned closer to her and Hermione felt every nerve in her body buzz with excitement. However, much to her disappointment, he only placed a quick, friendly kiss on her forehead before pulling away and regarding her stunned expression with a playful smirk.

"You can't possibly think I would dare risk offending you by being so bold as to assume I can kiss you, Your Majesty." Draco teased.

"Please offend me," she murmured under her breath. His shoulders shook as his laugh broke out and encompassed her with its loveliness; his voice alone reminded her of gold dipped in honey, but his laughter was something else entirely.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." He said.

"Why not?" Hermione whined.

Draco shook his head, "Non-magical customs are very different to ours… including courting, or so I've learned over the past few days… and quite simply put, I want to earn your affections in a way that would not be forward or offensive to your people."

"You care what they think about you?" She pressed.

"Yes." He replied instantly. "I believe kings, even king consorts, should be respected and loved by their people."

A small smile crept up, turning her lips slightly upward. "Wait… you mean - "

"Yes, Hermione. I want to marry you. I want to be with you from now on… every day until I die." His eyes sparked the pretty silver she found so intoxicating and it took everything in her to find her breath as he went on. "I want to do it the right way, though, and if that means starting over and courting you as a queen ought to be courted, then so be it."

Hermione found herself without words for several long moments before managing to comment, "So, I guess that means no more pressing me up against the passageways by candlelight?"

He chuckled. "Well… I suppose I won't court you _exactly_ as you ought to be."

"You won't hear a complaint from my lips," she assured him with a polite smile, playing along with the previous air of formality that he held. In response, he only shook his head. "It's all going to be different now… isn't it?"

"Yes." He sighed. "It's going to be very different now. For both of our kingdoms." He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up toward his and murmured softly against her lips. "You're not losing me. I'm not going anywhere." He promised her.

"Me neither." Hermione smiled faintly.

"What about your… council?" Draco pressed.

She smirked, "Oh, I plan on giving them hell if they get in my way."

He laughed his beautiful, melodical laugh. "That's my girl." Then, he stood and helped her to her feet – which were still shockingly uneasy after the trying night she'd been through – and beckoned Theo and Blaise over. "Since it's my responsibility to see to things around here now… Theo will have to accompany you to the border and see to it that you make it safely back to your castle."

Hermione could see the anxiety building in his clenched jaw and nodded solemnly, slinking her arm through Theo's proffered one.

"Come, Little Queen," he said. "I'll make sure your unfortunately stunted legs can keep up."

She gave him an encouraging smile before looking over her shoulder at Draco's hesitating, receding figure. "When will I see you again?" She asked. Her heart fluttered more than she wanted to admit; departing from him after spending the past few days at his side was strange enough, but things were undeniably so different now that it was truly hard to tell if they would ever be able to resume such comfort in each other's presence publicly.

Too many factors were in play now and as much as she hated to admit it, her impending marriage was atop of the list. Which they both knew was highly likely to be unforgiving and inconsiderate to their situation.

"Soon." Draco replied, though neither of them was convinced of his assurance. She turned away, biting her lip. "Oh, wait!" Her head whipped around, nearly assaulting Theo with her bushy, war-ridden curls. "You better take this. I believe it belongs to your people… in your castle."

She took the large ruby-stained stone between her hands and gave him a gratuitous but somber smile. It had caused so much harm she truly wanted to be rid of it entirely, not responsible for it, but then again it was so precious and its history with her lineage so rich that she could hardly bring herself to seriously consider the idea.

"Right, thank you." She murmured. Then, Hermione reluctantly pulled her eyes away from his and focused on the ground; her shoes were ruined beyond use so, she merely took them off and went on stumbling over the uneven stone until it transitioned to uneven tree roots once again.

Theo, thankfully, let her exist in her tumultuous thoughts until they reached the start of the woods again, where he interrupted her melancholic reverie. "If you insist on taking your sweet time navigating the forest floor at your infuriating slow rate, at least let me help you." He held up his wand expectantly and she nodded her approval, then shrieked when he instead pocketed it and scooped her up. "I'm convinced no amount of magic could help you, to be honest. Oh! By the way, this is Blaise Zabini. Blaise," he nudged. "Little Queen."

"Hermione," she said, shaking her head at Theo pretending not to listen.

"Nice to meet you, Your Majesty." He greeted with a polite nod.

She wrapped a hand loosely around Theo's neck, a bit uneasy at his familiarity with her after just having met her – true, they'd been through quite a lot in the short time they've known each other, but there was still the unavoidable nature of her (extremely) highborn status – and the fact that it wasn't Draco's arms holding her.

"Don't worry, Little Queen, your beloved prince won't mind me aiding you to the boundary. I mean, this particular path is really quite short and not at all difficult to walk through, but you seem to be exceptionally gifted at making such treks positively dreadful." He paused. "I suppose, if you think about it, I'm really doing the crown's work. I deserve a medal, a new title or something or another."

Blaise scoffed, "You do _not_." Then he pursed his lips and glanced askance at the two of them with a somber expression. "Draco isn't just a prince anymore… he's king now."

"All hail King Draco," Theo noted. "Long live the king."

There was an uncomfortable silence as the three of them let the weight of his comment settle; Hermione understood, probably as best as them she imagined, what it meant when there was an untimely transition in the monarchy. It was, to say the very least, unlucky.

"Here we are," Theo said as he placed Hermione back down.

At the forest edge, Hermione could quite clearly see the northernmost part of the main, west gardens and some of the northern tower and its accommodating apartments as well (which would be the king's apartments if there was currently one living in the Palace of Hogwarts; Hermione's – the queen's apartments – were located on the southern end, opposite the king's, on the seventh floor). She wondered, briefly, if Draco or any other wizards had ever stood where she stood and watched her _muggle_ people dancing and celebrating in their treasured, extensive gardens.

"You said there was a boundary," Hermione started. "I don't see one."

"It's quite literally right in front of you," Theo replied unhelpfully.

Blaise rolled his eyes, then reached out and gestured for Hermione to tilt her head slightly without touching her (clearly _his_ manners were in pristine condition unlike his friends, she thought). "It's hard to see during transitional times. Much easier to see in broad daylight, but if you look there – no, _there_ – yes, yes, right there – you see it?"

She squinted, unsure of what exactly made up a magical border separating their world from hers. "I see… a glimmer? It's kind of hazy, like looking through a shattered glass… or a mystic fog. I don't know. It's probably not right."

"No, that's it." Blaise assured cheerfully. "It's difficult to adjust your eyes to in the early morning light. As I mentioned before, transitional times like sunrise aren't ideal."

"Oh," she blinked. "That's it?"

"_That's it_?" Theo mimicked, shaking his head disapprovingly. "We create this incredible, _revolutionary_ advancement in order to protect our people from indefinite persecution and you have the audacity – no, the _balls_ – to say that's it?" He threw his hands in the air. "You're hopeless, child!"

"Theo," Blaise said in a tone that sounded like he not only reprimanded Theo more often than he liked, but also that no matter how many times he did so, the end result was the same.

She pressed her lips into a thin line and arched a brow at him, opting not to respond as Draco hadn't earlier. Perhaps not indulging in his behavior really was for the best.

"Once you cross over, you won't be able to see us anymore. Nor reenter." Blaise informed her.

"So, this is goodbye, then?" She asked. Blaise nodded, then bid her a very formal and polite _adieu_ before she turned her attention to Theo with an expectant smirk to meet his childish crossed arms. "You aren't going to say farewell, Theodore?"

"Oh, no, Little Queen don't you start! I was just starting to like you." He said. Then, he pulled her into a tight but split-second hug before pulling away and immediately reprimanding her. "Besides, this isn't farewell. You can't get rid of us that easily."

"I would hope not," she admitted.

Hermione gave them both one last lazy grin, then took a deep breath and stepped over the hazy threshold into her own world and kingdom. Without being able to help herself, she looked back over her shoulder about halfway up the lawn toward the furthermost part of the garden hedges to glimpse back at the Forbidden Forest.

There was no sign of Theo or Blaise. Not that she expected to be able to see them, after all, if Blaise was telling the truth, their entire kingdom lay behind the edge of the forest without any indication of it doing so; it was certainly something that would take a while – or maybe forever – for her to wrap her head around.

She sincerely hoped the magical boundary would not be there much longer. As it was, her heart already ached at the distance between her and Draco.

With a sorrowful sigh, she stepped into the gardens and wound her way through its maze of hedges and floral bushes, letting her mind shift from worrying about the concerns Draco would now have to busy himself with as the new king of his kingdom to the affairs she would have to face with her own kingdom and people – especially given the wreckage Riddle inflicted on both.

Sunlight broke over the horizon, illuminating Hermione. Her dress, hair and skin were a far cry from immaculate, but she never felt stronger or more regal than in this very moment. She had fought hard for her life, the precious stone she carried in her palms, and for not only her people, kingdom and country, but Draco's as well.

She felt invincible.

The minute she stepped through the heavy doors and into the Throne Room, where her people were scurrying around tending to one another and devising a plan to rescue their lost queen, the room fell silent.

There was only the sound of soft padded steps from her bare feet crossing the cold, marble floor as she made her way through the center of the room, toward the dais and her throne. Then, Hermione stepped up and turned to face her beloved friends and courtiers with a glorious smile.

"What you witnessed today was an event that will be remembered for all of time. It was a day that Tom Riddle – Lord Voldemort – stepped into our castle, _our kingdom_, and demanded that we bow to him and his evil ways. It was the day that our lives and our influence on the world were nearly eradicated." She paused, then continued on at a louder register, nearly shouting now. "But I stand before you now, with the legendary Philosopher's Stone in my hand, to tell you that we did _not_ let that happen. We persevered. We did not give in, nor did we vanquish at the hands of a man – an evil sorcerer – who stood much stronger and much more powerful than us. No… it is _we_ who stand victorious today. It is we that are now stronger and more powerful."

She surveyed the room, "And do you know what else? We will not let _anyone_ get the chance to threaten us as such ever again! We will continue to stand tall… to fight… to protect our kingdom!"

Hermione took a deep breath, eying her Hand before moving on. "Magic is real. Magic is still in existence. But we will not be threatened by them… we will not be persecuted… instead, we will find allies in them. We will stand together like our ancestors did." Her heart was pounding so loudly; her blood pumping was roaring in her ears. "We will bring about a new era of peace and prosperity!"

There was a moment of silence, of reflection among the crowd, before they all clapped and cheered her on in glorious unison.

"God save the Queen! God save our gracious Queen!"

Hermione bit back a smile as warmth flooded her, then gently sat back on her throne and let the plush, red velvet and the wonderful words envelope her in hope and affection.

"Long live our noble Queen!"

. . .


	8. The Void

. . .

_**Chapter 8 – The Void**_

. . .

_8 March 1456_

_6:54 pm_

It had been five months, three weeks, six days, and approximately twelve hours since the last time Hermione had seen Draco or the wizarding world and to say she was nervous would be the understatement of the century.

However, the moment she caught sight of his pale blond hair – so fine each strand was practically glowing in the last bits of sunlight – and reassuring smile, every worry she had leading up to this moment suddenly dissipated into nothing.

Though, if Hermione were being fair, there was a lot that had happened over the past few months in order for both of them to get to this moment that required extensive reflection.

. . .

_29 September 1455_

_12:14 pm_

"Wait, what?" Hermione said, gaping at Minerva and foregoing her ladylike manners altogether, earning a disapproving narrowing of dark eyes from her advisor.

"The vote passed with majority only hours ago." Minerva arched a brow, guiding Hermione through a turnabout the room, "I would've thought you'd have heard by now."

Apparently, in light of the events that passed with Lord Voldemort, the Council had ruled to lift the archaic law requiring Hermione to wed an acceptable king consort before taking on the traditional, sovereign responsibilities of a rightful, ruling monarch. Which meant that although her original date for coronation remained, she was no longer withheld from continuing on as Queen in all of its glory (which namely comprised of administrative and political bullshit, as she was learning).

Hermione fought the shrug that tensed her slender shoulders. "I opted not to sit in on their meeting this morning."

"Hm," Minerva huffed.

What Hermione neglected to elaborate on was that she had opted not to attend the meeting because she had thought it a complete waste of time. Never in her whole life would she have imagined that a room of older, entitled men would possibly allow for their beloved law to be repealed, much less for her. She wasn't entirely convinced they liked their new monarch and wondered if their previous allegiance to her dear Uncle Colbert during his regency had something to do with it; it was impossible to imagine he had said specifically _respectable_ things about her. Of course, he couldn't speak poorly of her (even if she had been underage during his regency and quite literally blocking his path to possessing the crown himself permanently) for obvious reasons. But that didn't mean he was generous with his so-called compliments either.

According to Minerva, the Council had been both shocked and astounded that a small (re: fragile) and untrained (re: inept) woman (re: woman, because she was sure that they believed that to be accurately insulting) had been not only able to survive encountering (re: kidnapping!) such a dangerous wizard, but also to defeat one. So, they'd called an emergency meeting with whomever had been in town for her birthday festivities and held a vote.

It was not exactly how she wanted to win that particularly sexist obstacle, but sure, she'd take it. The alternative had been proposing to Neville, so really… it could be worse. He was still a lovely, albeit naïve, man but she couldn't lie to herself that imagining her future with any man beside the pale blonde prince – now king – she came to love.

Draco... _Draco_.

That was an entirely separate emotional dilemma of hers; it existed adjacent to her S.P.E.W._, _but it felt intensely different as it was primarily nostalgic and longing in nature. Every time she found herself thinking of him, she couldn't help but remember only the intimacy of his eyes and the lingering warmth of his touch.

Her memories of him altered slightly now that she knew he _was_ in fact the angel, the prince charming, that had rescued her all those nights ago. Every memory she had, every cruel and passionate remembrance of his touch, featured the overlay of his deep, beautiful voice.

The brush of his knuckles against her cheek, so gentle and innocent. A spark in his grey eyes, appearing silver in the early morning light, as she crossed the room towards him. The accidental touch of his fingers to hers as they read, side by side, in the library.

_What would I give to see you smiling at me?_

Her heart pounding, threatening to leap out of her chest or give up altogether, at the sly smile he would often give her when she said something with a double connotation. Then, his fingertips tracing patterns down her spine and across her rib cage as he clung to her in the dim firelight. Heavy breathing and palpable tension lingering in what little space remained between them.

_You can't possibly think I would dare risk offending you by being so bold as to assume I can kiss you, Your Majesty._

His eyes, darker now, wandered down her body in a slow, tantalizing fashion, and despite the many layers of skirts and corsets, Hermione shivered. His lips, tasting of fresh strawberries, were pulling at hers with an intensity she found no difficulty in matching. The muscles beneath his shirt were hard and unyielding.

_May I?_

His capable fingers tracing patterns on the back of her neck as he lowered his mouth to hers, taking her breath in his. His hands inevitably tangling themselves in her unruly curls and tugging her head back to expose her neck to his lips, his tongue, his teeth. Even in the most innocent of circumstances, with his hands resting at his side or atop a surface between them, Hermione found herself thinking of them touching her _there_ and it sent shivers up her spine and color rushing to her cheeks. He had never done it, of course. But, oh, how she had wanted him to.

Shamelessly, Hermione had begun to pleasure herself at night when she lay awake with swarming thoughts of his plentiful lips and his beautiful, stormy grey eyes on hers. Her confessor, sworn to the utmost secrecy, had admonished her behavior but had promised her that God would forgive all of her sins and so long as she didn't risk the sacredness of her virginity, she was still fit to continue as Queen without fear of losing her pretty head.

She hadn't spoken a word about it to anyone else, not even Pansy or Daphne.

. . .

_18 November 1455_

_1:34 pm_

"Miss Daphne Greengrass," Pansy said in a tone much too agreeable for her personality, leveling her dark eyes on Daphne's bright green ones from across the sitting room. "Why aren't you married yet, or at least engaged?"

"I thought you didn't approve of Cedric as a potential husband of mine." Daphne mused, putting down the stitch work she hadn't really been enjoying anyway in favor of meeting Pansy's now exasperated gaze.

"Oh, I don't." She shrugged, going on as if Daphne should have known better, "I meant why aren't you engaged or married _to someone else_. Surely, this courtship of yours has produced some confessions of undying love from several courtiers?" She challenged.

Hermione, who had been previously lost in thought over upcoming war efforts – and surprisingly not Draco – turned her attention to her friends' banter.

"Perhaps," Daphne relented, and Hermione noticed she was vehemently not making eye contact with Seamus who suddenly took up interest in the ornate wallpaper.

"Well?" Pansy pressed. "None of them good enough for you?" Her tone was not harsh, unlike her stinging words, but Daphne and Hermione knew better than to take them literally. She only meant that those who _had_ confessed their love to Daphne were of inconsequential stature, which was more than likely going to be true no matter how many times Pansy demanded it not be.

Both women were under strict orders from their families to marry well. The Greengrass's would likely be happy with any respectable lord or the like, so long as it meant their daughter would be well endowed ultimately leading their other daughter, Astoria, to be held in higher esteem once she was allowed to enter society and search for her own husband. However, Hermione knew the Parkinson's were unlikely to give their daughter away to anyone less than a prince – or a famously rich and powerful duke – and felt especially sympathetic towards Pansy. She imagined much of Pansy's recent obsession with seeing Daphne married off to some eligible man (in her perspective of course) was because of her own inability to do so.

"None better than Cedric," Daphne confessed.

"Hm." Pansy huffed in response, then busied herself with the book in her lap. Though, Hermione could clearly see her eyes were not moving along the lines of the pages, but rather fixed on one corner of the page, evidently lost in thought.

"How about you?" Hermione ventured. "How are you and Harry?"

After the repeal of the archaic law demanding Hermione select a king consort the week of her eighteenth birthday, she made it very clear to her suitors that she had no intention of marrying any of them. Most of them left the palace to return to their lives (thankfully including Lord Krum who still may or may not be involved in Grindelwald's Army), but Harry had lingered, claiming that he would return to Grimmauld when he was done with task he'd taken up during his time at Hogwarts.

Hermione was entirely certain that his so-called task primarily involved winning over Pansy and not the fascination with knight-ship he claimed it to be. Harry had been somewhat elusive when they talked during their rides through the wintry pastures on the far side of the castle (_not_ overlooking the forest for once) and often found a way to divert the subject of conversation from his love life. He usually accompanied her twice a week for a morning ride – which Pansy had strongly denied any inclusion in their pointless physical exertion (her words, not Hermione's) – then scampered off to learn the art of war with her palace guards.

Harry had proved a quick learner and was already sparring with near-equal skill to some of her finest knights. However, this particular schedule meant that Hermione had little to no chance of finding out what was truly going on between Pansy and him – if there was even anything going on at all. It was strange, Hermione noted, that while his eyes constantly lingered on Pansy whenever they were in shared space, he continued to deny any existence of romance between them. Yet, his presence in Hogwarts was evidence enough, she thought, that perhaps not everything was as it seemed between them.

Hence, Hermione's tactless (and always fruitless) attempts to find out exactly what was going on between them.

"You know very well there is no _me and Harry_, Hermione. Will you desist?" She snapped, then shook her head and actually began to read the book in her lap with renewed interest.

Hermione sighed, exchanging a glance with Daphne before returning to the letter she was writing to Commanders Moody and Fletcher. Among the many events that occurred over the past few weeks, one of the constants had been the impending war from Grindelwald's Army. They remained in their semi-hidden camp under the watchful eye of her most trusted companies, however there was little indication of their near advancement on her kingdom.

Her letter was in response to their request for improvement of supplies to see them through the winter, and in the harsh snowstorms that often came with January and February, Hermione assured them that she would find a way to get food, wine and blankets to them as soon as the roads were cleared and safe for travel. She also asked for an update on the opponent's encampment and daily activities (as she always did), then sealed the letters and passed them along to Seamus – who had been promoted to the position of her close guard following Roger's death – before turning to Dean with tired eyes.

Later, Hermione couldn't help but feel the usual despondency creep up on her as she stood at the edge of one of the western-facing towers, the seasonally bone-chilling breeze tangling her curls. Her thoughts regarding Draco, magic, and the entirety of his realm's existence, especially given its proximity to hers, typically continued down a familiar spiral.

Per usual, it started out innocently with internal ponderings regarding Draco's wellbeing. She stared off at the forest's edge in the distance and squinted through the barren trees in attempt to catch a glimpse of the boundary she knew firstly to be well-intact and secondly to be invisible to her muggle eyes.

Only once had Hermione dared to venture back into the Forbidden Forest after going days without hearing from Draco. It had been a terrible mistake that started her initial spiral of emotions. Until then, she'd been primarily concerned with why she hadn't heard from him and what could possibly be preventing him from doing so. But, standing beneath the towering trees in the late autumn with their leaves falling around her to signal winter's soon approach, Hermione couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the reality was not that Draco _couldn't_ see her but _wouldn't_.

Commence: debilitating spiral.

On her better days, it gradually resolved itself neatly into one of the many stages of grief. Denial was one of her favorites; she would tell herself that perhaps she had simply hit her head rather spectacularly and never truly woken up from her visit to the infirmary. Draco had simply been a figment of her vivid imagination, complete with the existence of his magical world hidden in the woods behind her palace. How ridiculous would it be for any of it to exist, really? Magic… dark wizards… precious stones playing tricks on her mind. All of it. Any of it.

None of it could have possibly been real.

But then, quite rudely, something or someone would prompt her to elaborate on her experience during Her Disappearance and thus validate the entirety of the wizarding world (including Draco). This resulted in her not only having to relive her experiences internally, but also to move into another stage of grief.

Cue: anger.

However, more often than not, Hermione found herself falling down a spiral of crippling thoughts (_Was he – and the entire wizarding world – being reclusive on purpose? Was it because of _her? _Had she made a gallant speech about the possibility of their unity on entirely false pretenses? Had he never cared for her at all? WHY HADN'T SHE HEARD FROM HIM?_)that brought about depressive episodes of reclusiveness or psychotic acts of behavior that would be concerning of anyone, especially a sovereign. She'd overheard her uncle whispering about her often enough when he thought she wasn't listening to know that if she continued the way she was going, she would surely be presumed mad and incapable of wearing the crown.

As expected, that did not sit well with her.

Pansy had given her emotional spiral a pet name after having to endure it several times.

They had been having breakfast in one of her atriums – the one that faced the Forbidden Forest which Hermione had distractingly been staring at, lost in thought – while the early November snow fell outside, blanketing the grounds in a beatific white layer.

"You're not having another one of your psychotic breakdowns, are you?" Pansy had said to her with a disapproving glare, recognizing the vacant expression on Hermione's face. "Because I'm not sure I've had enough tea this morning to be able to handle the absurd and unrelenting questions you will no doubt bestow upon me."

"I just can't help but wonder - "

"Oh, Christ, here we go." Pansy murmured, lifting her teacup to her pursed lips.

" – what if I grossly misinterpreted Draco?"

Daphne, who was also familiar with the inevitable onslaught of questions that were likely to follow given Hermione's behavioral patterns since Draco's absence, exchanged a wary glance with Pansy and cleared her throat with a polite cough.

"Hermione," she said softly. "I hardly think that's anything to worry about. I'm sure he's just busy."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure that's it." Pansy agreed dispassionately.

Daphne went on, "You said it yourself, he's a working royal. A king. I'm sure he has a lot to concern himself with besides - "

She abruptly cut herself off with a warning glare from Pansy, but it hadn't been quick enough as Hermione had already unhelpfully completed her thought process aloud.

"Besides me?"

Pansy shifted her cutting dark eyes from Daphne to Hermione and added an additional, admonishing finger. "Don't," she threatened.

"But, Pans, seriously. What if he - "

"No." She shook her head. "No more, _What if_'s Hermione. This insipid path of self-loathing is not becoming of you. You are a queen, and more than that, you are a woman who does _not_ need to be concerning herself with the whereabouts of a man. King or not,"

Hermione refrained from biting her lip and met her friend's expectant gaze. She attempted to meet Daphne's eyes for support, but hers were fixed on her perfectly manicured nails with immense concentration. Her wide eyes begrudgingly returned to Pansy's narrowed ones,

"But - "

"No." Pansy repeated, not even slightly softer. "It's been weeks of you moping and continuing on this… this spiral."

"Spiral?" Hermione mocked with furrowed brows.

"Yes, spiral of pathetic and endless withering, weren't you listening? Honestly," she scoffed.

"Ah, yes. Spew. I've heard of it." Daphne mused, hiding a giggle in the next bite of her biscuit.

"Wouldn't it be S-P-E-W?" Hermione questioned.

"Your childish behavior hardly deserves a name, I assure you," Pansy said, reprimanding both Daphne and Hermione in one swift glare, "but as you inconveniently continue to partake in it… Yes. Spew." She sniffed.

Hermione shook her head, adamant about the grammatical correction. "No, not _Spew_. S-P-E-W."

To which Pansy only flicked an invisible speck of dust off of her skirts and replied without looking up, "Yes, Spew. That's what I said." When Hermione only huffed in response and Daphne remained smartly silent, Pansy went on. "It's an infliction you have been suffering exceptionally often since you left your village-boy-turned-prince-turned-king behind. No more of it, Hermione. You are _Queen_. Your kingdom needs you."

Unfortunately – as much as Hermione wanted Lady Four-Names not to be – she was right.

Now, since her first accidental mental break in the public eye (best saved for another time), Hermione made sure to keep her internal dwellings and questionable behavior to herself or in company of those she trusted with the utmost confidence. The good thing about being queen was that once she had regained control of her emotions in public, the rumors of her ill-health ceased quickly and indefinitely. Uncle Colbert withdrew himself to his country home in the south for the entirety of the winter which had thankfully cleared the way for Hermione to continue her joint responsibilities with the Council uninterrupted – though they still remained apprehensive of her no thanks to the sweet nothing's he must have whispered in their treacherous ears.

How inconvenient was it that the election (and dismissal) of members to the Council were of the few things – literally, she could count them on one hand – which she had no control over.

. . .

_25 December 1455_

_8:09 pm_

Hermione collapsed unceremoniously on the velvet sofa in her antechambers and waved Dean and Seamus away with a tired grin, wishing them a Happy Christmas and good evening with their families.

Today had been exhausting, more so than the days leading up to it which was no small feat in her opinion. Last week, Hermione had been subjected to decide between what she felt were two identical sets of placemats and centerpieces for the Christmas dinner. A few days ago, she was expected to look over the invite list and finalize the seating chart. Just yesterday, she'd spent nearly the entire day in the Beau Boudoir with handmaids poking and prodding her for her final fitting with Daphne and Minerva circling her in hushed tones, commenting on this trim design or that thread color or whether or not Hermione should have an outfit change between Christmas Mass and the following dinner (which unsurprisingly had been ruled unanimously in favor of).

Christmas Day, previously busy but in a welcome and amusing way throughout her childhood years, was unequivocally tiring and mind-numbing as Queen. There were so many rules and regulations which she had not even realized she'd skirted as a minor that Minerva had made sure she was not only aware of, but also upholding with the same respect and admiration of the monarchs before her.

By the time Hermione had made it to the front pew and was granted an entire hour or more of seldom introspection as Father Flitwick gave an animated mass, she felt herself begrudgingly caught on the words Minerva had said to her hours before when she made a spectacle of giving gifts to children who traveled from the nearby towns.

"Well done, Hermione," Minerva had said, though the only indication of her actual approval other than her words was a slight nod in Hermione's direction. "You remind me of your mother."

Her mother?

Hermione had wanted to cease handing wrapped packages she hardly knew the contents of – a detail she found herself wanting to change for the next year – and further question her advisor. _What had she meant by that? How could she possibly repeat whatever she had done in order to better resemble her mother?_

There was so much to think of that it took Hermione several minutes to notice that Father Flitwick had finished Christmas Mass and that the royal party, accompanied by several close nobles, were to move to the Great Hall for dinner.

"Your Majesty?" Daphne prompted, placing a light hand on her shoulders and giving her a devastatingly beautifully crooked smile. The use of Hermione's formal title was due to their very public appearance and (mostly) to Minerva's presence at their side.

Hermione felt a guilty smile tug at her rouge lips and stood from the pew, taking Daphne's hand briefly in hers before dropping it to clasp her hands at her abdomen. "Miss Greengrass," she replied, continuing the annoyingly formal protocol.

"Your Majesty," Pansy remarked with a subtle glint in her rebellious eyes. She moved to flank on the other side of Hermione as the three of them followed Minerva out of the Royal Chapel and into the dark corridors of the castle, now lit with too many torches and decorated with an abundance of holly and baby's breath.

"So," Hermione whispered low enough for no one else to overhear. "What did your men get you for Christmas, then?"

Pansy, as predicted, seethed momentarily before schooling her face into a stoic expression, then replied with, "Harry is not _my man_."

"Who said anything about Harry?" Hermione playfully pointed out, knowing full well that she was only prodding the sleeping bear further.

"You - "

Daphne, interrupting the slight that was likely to fall from Pansy's lips, said too brightly, "Cedric gifted me a new riding saddle and a ribbon."

"Why would he do that?" Pansy questioned.

Daphne shrugged, "The ribbon is to tie my hair back on occasion, I imagine, though I suppose it is a strange gift to receive from a man and - "

"No, no," Pansy said, pausing to nudge Hermione into waving at palace guests who lined themselves along the last corridor before the Great Hall in order to see her. "Why would he gift you a riding saddle? Why would you ever need such an absurd thing."

"When riding a horse?" Daphne postulated with an air of sarcasm.

"Exactly," Pansy sniffed. "I rest my case."

Hermione scoffed, hiding it in a cough at Minerva's sharp glance back at them. Then, she went on quietly, "Riding is not _absurd_, Pans. I ride twice a week with Harry as you might recall." When that particular fact did little to sway the skeptically arched brow on Pansy, she continued as they stood before the Great Hall doors, awaiting the commencement of their highly regulated grand entrance. "I think it's a lovely gift, Daph, though I haven't seen you ride in quite some time."

Daphne nodded solemnly, "Cedric said the same thing this morning when he gave it to me. I reckon he thinks it'll prove a turning point on my stance and convince me to take him up on his offers of riding with him."

"He's asked you to ride with him… why haven't you?" Hermione pressed, still unsure of whether or not Daphne had any true intentions of courting Cedric outside of Pansy's abominable plot to secure her a more advantageous match.

She shrugged, "I suppose I feel like if I say yes to weekly rides, then what's next? Will I have to go on his weekly visits to his father's estate and farm? Will I have to ask him to formally escort me to any significant events, like today's?"

"Valid point." Pansy unhelpfully commented.

Hermione shot her a marginally reprimanding glance before turning her attention back to Daphne, "Never mind that. I'm sure there's some way that you can continue courting him and still not lead him into thinking you're prepared for more? Besides, if you really do care for him and the only thing stopping you from moving forward with him is the lack of your parent's approval, I can certainly gift him lands and a title for Christmas."

"Oh, please don't do that, Hermione. I don't think he really wants that - "

"What man doesn't?" Pansy scoffed.

" – and more importantly," she went on, giving Pansy a brief glower, "I'm still not sure I do want to move forward with him. He's nice enough, but I don't think he's the one, you know? There's no spark."

Hermione rested a gentle hand on Daphne's and gave her a small smile; if anyone understood, it would be her.

"Will both of you _desist_ with that 'the one' nonsense?" Pansy reprimanded through gritted teeth, somehow still managing a bright smile for those outside of earshot that were watching them interact. "Neither of you can afford to think of that luxury, should such a stupid thing even exist."

Daphne patted her skirts and opted not to respond which prompted Hermione to hurriedly say something else before she and Pansy followed Minerva into the Great Hall for Christmas dinner.

"Why don't you and Cedric come with Harry and I on our rides?"

"I - " Daphne stuttered, then regained herself and straightened her posture as Pansy's disapproving finger found itself between her shoulder blades. "Really? That would be ideal."

Hermione offered her a beaming smile and waved away any niceties, "It would be my pleasure, Miss Greengrass."

Pansy gestured for Daphne to begin walking with her down the main aisle of the hall, covered in newly acquired burgundy carpet, and gave Hermione a indecipherable shake of her head, murmuring, "Your Majesty," before resuming her position at Daphne's side.

Christmas dinner had gone rather smoothly, and even the speech Hermione had to give – which she was becoming better and better at since having to give one at least every other day – received loads of praise. She was worried that her reputation among her people, especially the nobles, had not recovered enough to be so well received, but thankfully she had been wrong about that. It seemed that slowly but surely, they were becoming fond of their queen once more.

It wasn't until that evening, when she was finally alone in her bedchambers, that Hermione felt the overwhelming feeling of missing Draco sweep across her features. That night, when Hermione gently slid her palm beneath her petticoats and knickers, her thoughts of him, his lips, his very skilled fingers, took a different tone than it usually did when her thumb found her clit. This time, the sensation of longing and hollowness – in contrast with her primal and passionate urges – over her lost prince charming directed her sinful behavior and took her over the edge.

. . .

_31 December 1455_

_3:55 pm_

"Tighter," Pansy grunted, steadying herself against the bedpost. She inhaled deeply and waited for the rearranging of her organs to continue, then hissed again when it didn't.

"Tighter, Millie!"

"Yes, Lady Parkinson. I'm sorry, Lady Parkinson."

The mousy girl bit her lip, which Pansy caught in the reflective glass and immediately felt the urge to reprimand but was cut off by the sudden need to draw breath. She inhaled as the pressure on her abdomen doubled, successfully preventing her rib cage from moving.

"Tighter," Pansy gasped. "For Heaven's sake, Millie, you don't want me to appear bloated or impregnated, do you?"

Millie shook her head violently, stammering out, "No, no, milady."

Pansy bit on her tongue, tasting copper as she held back a muffled cry. She could sense the girl's hesitation and reluctantly gave in after one more debilitating intake of breath.

"You can tie it off now, Millie. That's sufficient."

Her handmaid nodded obediently, murmuring a _Yes, Lady Parkinson_ before tying off her corset with trembling fingers. Pansy leaned off of the bedpost and righted her posture, internally waving off any sensation of dizziness from lack of proper air intake.

What was possible bodily harm to the perfect silhouette, hm?

With the help of her handmaid, Pansy continued getting dressed for the evening's activities in honor of ringing in the new year. She had personally overseen much of the celebratory arrangements, right down to the selection of flowers for the centerpieces of the tables.

"How about these?" Harry had unhelpfully, and quite predictably, asked weeks ago when he accompanied her against her wishes to the courtyard.

Pansy moved from one hastily made florist booth – set up in the palace's courtyard specifically to display their best arrangements for possible selection for the Queen's New Year's extravaganza – to another without so much as a glance in his direction.

"No."

"No? I think you mean yes." Harry said, sidling along next to her after picking up a single flower from the previous florist and depositing too much gold in their dirty hands.

"I'm undeniably certain I mean no," she sniffed in response, lifting a double lily to her eye level for better inspection. Wilted. What a shame, too, since it had so much potential.

"What's not to love about pansies… hm?" He taunted, shamelessly tilting the flower in her direction with a debaucherously arched brow when she finally turned to face him.

She fought the micro-expression of agitation she felt trickling up her cheekbones and faced the next florist booth to resume her inspection process.

"Would you prefer I buy you a bouquet of something else? Perhaps, roses?"

"Those are quite overdone."

Harry tossed his head, considering it as she quickly moved on from the white roses she'd been eyeing.

"That's true," he agreed. "Though, I imagine so are pansies for you. I wonder how many times men have bought them for you and thought themselves so clever."

"None were dumb enough to try," she commented, giving him one of her best Try Me If You Dare smiles (which Harry almost always disinclined abiding by).

"Well," Harry continued, one long leg strolling leisurely beside her at a time while her much shorter legs navigated the current maze of the courtyard. "I find myself at a loss, then Lady Parkinson, for there is no selection of flowers worthy of your refined taste."

"Ah, finally," she grinned. "We agree on something."

He shot her a playfully disapproving smirk while she nodded to the last florist and directed his attention to the maids following behind her. She gave them both strict instructions on the care and procurement of the flowers for the New Year's event, then bid them all kindly farewell before heading back towards the castle.

The next day, when Pansy had been walking about the gardens with Daphne and Hermione she caught Harry's dangerous smirk – the one that he usually gave her before their more sinful activities ensued – and turned animatedly back to her friends in order to hide the color that dared to rise to her cheeks.

Later that afternoon, she was sitting in one of the drawing rooms, pretending to read a novel by some fool named Gilderoy Lockhart, when she noticed a tiny stalk with even tinier white petals on the end of it perched on the cushion beside her. She picked up the peculiar plant and surveyed the room, finding it full of people of which none seemed aware of her finding.

Save for one with incurable messy black hair.

Harry gave her a wink before turning his back to her and briskly leaving the drawing room. She hurriedly closed her book and wished the ladies she'd been sitting with a good day, then went after him in the fasted pace manners would allow.

"What's this?" She'd demanded, thrusting the tiny flower into his chest as they ducked into a dark alcove.

"It's for you," he supplied, his brilliant eyes focused so intently on her she had to force her thighs together.

"I told you, I don't want flowers."

This didn't seem to faze him, if anything it seemed to make his mischievous grin grow. "It's not a flower. I would've thought you knew that seeing as you spend a lot of time analyzing them for various events."

"I analyze every décor detail for events, that doesn't mean I know every single thing about them. I hardly have any clue as to how satin curtains are made but I could certainly tell you they clash with lace unless they're both white." She huffed. "If it's not a flower then what is it, Henry?"

"A weed."

"A weed?" She repeated, scoffing as she turned it between her thumb and forefinger.

His eyes searched her face while his hands found themselves at her waist, tracing patterns into the fabrics of her dress, though she might as well not have been wearing one seeing as she could feel the heat of his touch like the weight of one thousand knives. Piercing and unforgiving.

"You said no flowers," he said smugly.

She shook her head at him, her legs now shaking with anticipation as his hands snaked around to pull her closer to his body. His very, very hot and muscular body.

"You idiot," she sighed into his mouth.

Dinner went well, and even from her superior position Pansy could tell that Hermione's delight seemed genuine. Sitting her next to Daphne and Cedric – who was unprecedently allowed a seat at the high table on this one occasion – was a good call seeing as both of their horrific and undying sense of optimism was much better company for Hermione than her usual formal dinner companions (which would be the ever-brooding Grand Master Snape and tight-lipped Mistress Minerva).

Pansy had unfortunately been on the receiving end of conversation from boring nobles throughout the seven-course meal while her friends chatted happily next to her. Luckily, after she entered the ballroom and shared a mandatory dance (in her mother's eyes of course because good manners and perfect dance skills were supposedly the key to finding a suitable husband), Pansy caught the glimpse of something that didn't quite belong on one of her flawless centerpieces.

She plucked the pretty little weed from the bouquet and searched the room for her favorite – though she would deny it to the grave – pair of eyes. Instead, she saw his disheveled hair duck under an open doorway, then followed suite.

It must have been close to midnight by the time she finally caught up to him, weaving through the castle corridors, empty sitting rooms, abandoned courtyards, and dark gardens.

Or, rather, she thought she had caught up to him.

"Harry?"

The hedges were tall, far taller than any man or woman she'd ever come across and towered over her in the most ominous way, appearing to loom over her in the dim moonlight. The snow, having fallen heavy over the past week, crunched below her heels; her feet plummeted through the soft blanket, wetting her shoes, petticoats and even several inches of her white gown.

"Harry, it's not funny anymore…" Pansy called, wandering further into the gardens. "Come out now or I swear I'll - "

She cut off her threat as a scream escaped her lips, hands gripping her waist and pulling her back.

"You'll what?" Harry breathed into her ear, the warmth of his breath on her neck enough to momentarily make her forget where she was and what she was doing.

Pansy tilted her head up, back pressed against his chest, to let out either a string of obscenities or a very detailed outlining of his eminent death or both but was rudely interrupted by his teeth pulling at her bottom lip.

Quickly, her tongue slid along his and her hands wound themselves in his helplessly thick and beautifully chaotic hair. They may have been standing in foot-deep snow in subzero temperatures and wearing little more than elegant evening garb, but the shiver that shot up her spine had nothing to do with any of those details.

It was simply biology.

Pansy was indisputably and irrationally attracted to Harry – for whatever its worth, he evidently felt the same dangerous gravitation towards her – and there was nothing either of them could do to keep their hands off of each other.

True, if it were up to Harry alone, she imagined the two of them would be married by now and not hiding their affair from everyone, including Daphne and Hermione. But it wasn't up to Harry.

She had made it very clear, on more occasions than she could recount, that their union was never going to happen and that he might as well accept it. He didn't, of course, claiming in the wiseacre and (slightly) pretentious way that he does, that their marriage was actually a foregone conclusion and that _she_ needed to accept that.

Needless to say, between bouts of sex there had been plenty of bickering… or between bouts of bickering, plenty of sex. Whatever.

The point was that Pansy had presented Harry with quite the ultimatum. Secret affair, no strings attached, or no affair at all. Harry begrudgingly obliged – obviously – though she could tell as he muttered to himself under his breath as he slid down her naked torso that he only did so because he believed one day, she would change her mind.

As if she was the one who really needed convincing.

. . .

_7 February 1456_

_1:10 pm_

The scent of burning oil encompassed Hermione's senses as she stepped casually into the dark room lit only by red flames; she had only been in this particular section of the castle a handful of times and, like now, was never too thrilled to have to do so.

"Snape," she said, unsuccessful at trying to draw his attention away from his brewing potion. There were several glass vials of all shapes and sizes littering the countertop she assumed must be his workspace, though it was hard to tell when parchment with illegible scribblings and what she could only presume to be ingredients were scattered across it.

"Your Majesty," he drawled, his dark hair obscuring what was likely to be a highly irritated expression across his entirely unimpressed face.

"Have you forgotten about the meeting?"

"No, I simply do not wish to attend."

She sighed. As much as she agreed with him that this meeting would be life-draining at best, that didn't mean either of them would be excused from attending. While she – as the queen – was able to exempt herself from non-mandatory council meetings, there was nothing that could be done to avoid this one. Hermione imagined even if she were lying on her death bed, the High Council would find some way to drag her cot into the congress chamber.

There was a sprout poking out from a pile of papers, and Hermione picked it up, twirling it between her two fingers until she heard a lamented sigh from across the smoky room.

"Don't. Touch. Anything."

Hermione, however, knew there was nothing he could do to harm her or threaten her, and took complete advantage of such a fact by moving further into the room, trailing her pretty fingers along everything in sight.

It worked because the sound of glass vials clanking into one another caused Snape's head to snap up, his dark eyes narrowed on her with strained antagonism.

"It won't work you know." He said, arching a dark brow at her from between billows of smoke moving through the narrow pathway separating them.

Hermione blinked, feigning simplicity. "What won't?"

"Your Majesty," Snape said, the title dripping from his upturned mouth. "You can't possibly think anyone would believe you to be naïve, do you?" When she shrugged, he went on. "Your plan. This terrible idea that the wizarding world and the muggle one is capable of existing alongside one another. The council will never approve of it. You may have delivered a pretty speech all those months ago, but it was also a hollow one."

She fought a grimace, "The nobles seemed to like it."

"The nobles are idiots." He replied plainly.

"Aren't you a noble?" Hermione countered.

Snape's eyes glinted darkly, "There's always an exception, isn't there?"

Her lips formed a thin line at his disapproval. (Technically speaking, Snape was not a noble by birth, only through his academic success as Grand Master and by way of securing his position as Hand of the Queen.)

"The meeting is starting." Was all she said, not having the energy to explain herself to him seeing as she was about to do it in front of an entire room full of condescending older men anyway. "We have to go."

Hermione turned from the room and beckoned for Dean and Seamus to follow her up the stairs and toward the main congress chamber. This one was unlike the Chamber of Secrets in every way imaginable; it had high ceilings with window panes at the center, illuminating the decorative marble floor beneath it, and along the length of the walls were velvet cushions whose deep navy color almost always appeared black except when bits of natural sunlight shone down on them. In the center of the room, facing the far wall where Hermione's throne stood in all its burgundy and gold glory, was a table with four highchairs made to single out those among the council who held the most prominent voices – and subsequently the most power.

Her black skirts, heavy to keep her small figure warm in the late winter's day, fanned out around her as she lowered herself gracefully into her throne. A hand covered in golden rings reached up to the top of her head to fix the tiara – oh, yes, still not a crown since she had yet to partake in her official coronation – that slid to one side as her curls bounced around her face.

She had arrived first, as was custom, and watched as high-ranking nobles from _respectable_ families – including the vile Viscount Parkinson – took their seats on either side of the main aisle, then as the four most powerful councilmembers took their seats across from her. From her right to left sat Grand Master Snape, Grand Master Gringott, High Constable Sir Finnigan, and High Council Fudge.

High Constable Cornelius Fudge was a pudgy and wealthy man with little care to anyone other than himself or anything other than his red roses, but that was not the primary reason Hermione did not like him (seeing as the first offense was a commonality among all noblemen). Fudge was a close friend of her Uncle Colbert and any man who was in allegiance with the kingdom's former Regent found himself an enemy of its current Queen.

As it was, Uncle Colbert was sitting off to her right looking entirely too pleased with himself after returning from his winter holiday in his southernmost estate. Hermione tried her best not to grind her teeth or openly grimace at him from her position, and instead channeled her inner Pansy in the hopes that mentally tearing his limbs from his traitorous body would place a pretty grin across her face.

The meeting started off with the nobles making various requests for their regions of the kingdom and the four men sat opposite her debating (well, minus Snape who hardly said more than ten words over the course of grand meetings like these) whether or not such things were considered to be reasonable enough for Hogwarts to sanction or entirely too unreasonable.

Hermione tuned it out for the most part, only catching phrases such as _No, twenty goats is not enough for a fair trade! _and _The name Hog's Head, for a pub? Are you mad? _and _Blimey, there's really nothing like a good figgy pudding, is there?_

When, finally, the conversation shifted into topics of greater significance.

"So… about this so-called army we have on the eastern border," one man – whom she later recalled to be the elder Lord Goyle – said, glancing expectedly around the room. "What is coming of it?"

The past month, there had been a slight change in what had become Grindelwald's Army's daily routine. Moody had sent her letter after letter recounting their schedule, which seemed to mostly consist of learning basic warfare trade such as how to properly wield a sword without injuring oneself. The prospect of magic involvement – initially speculated based on the mysterious company of men hidden, shooting light flares at one another – had been dispelled (pun greatly intended) and thus, aside from Moody and Fletcher's companies keeping an eye on them, there was little more to be done. It seemed as though, until a tide turned, Grindelwald's Army would fade into nothing or be quickly disbanded by her skilled knights surrounding it.

This much, Sir Finnigan happily relayed to the rest of the Council. Her eyes met with Snape's from across the room but, as the rest of the noblemen cheered and applauded her Head of the Queen's Guard for his exemplary leadership, Hermione could only focus on the near-indiscernible shake of her Hand's head.

Hermione wanted to lose herself in her thoughts, finding her mind already sparking with endless possibilities as to why Snape would make such a gesture, however she was unable to do so when the next topic of debate was none other than herself.

Well, more accurately, the act she wanted to implement that would allow for a smooth transition in welcoming the wizarding kingdom to intermingle with their own.

"Your Majesty," Fudge said, clearing his throat as he stood to address her. "We, your loyal noblemen, have given your Amalgam Act much consideration over the past four months and have come to a conclusion."

This.

This was the entire reason Hermione had gotten herself under control of her S.P.E.W. She had presented this act to the Council last time they all met – large meetings like this happened far less frequently than her secretive ones – and had given them the four-month deadline that coincided with their tri-annual meetings. Though, at the time, her image was scarcely as sane and pristine as it was now. Her tireless efforts to appear less Mad Queen and more Brave Queen would hopefully not have been in vain.

She caught the glance Fudge made to Uncle Colbert moments before he told her, "We have ruled in opposition of such an act."

The ringing in her ears barely subsided before Hermione found herself straightening her already perfect posture and demanding an explanation from the High Council.

"On what grounds?"

Fudge's jaw clenched and unclenched, clearly not thrilled at having to explain himself to what she imagined he believed to be a _diminutive child of a queen._

"It is not in the best interest of the realm."

She willed herself to keep her tone from revealing her true emotions, "What would you know of such things?"

This time, Uncle Colbert stood and interrupted them with a not-too-subtle cough. He held out a hand to Fudge, blatantly ignoring his queen in favor of addressing his friend first, then slowly turned and angled himself at his niece.

"Your Majesty," he smirked, and Hermione dug her nails into her palm before offering him a silent nod of approval for him to continue. "There has been no contact from the wizarding world, so who is to say they haven't already made it clear they don't wish to be part of our kingdom again?"

"They will contact us. I'm sure of it."

"Oh, are you?" He said, arching a brow innocently (barely). She narrowed her eyes at him at his lengthy pause, until finally he conceded. "Your Majesty."

"Yes. Do you dare question me, Uncle?"

"No," he shook his head, an evil grin forming at the corners of his mouth. "I would never do such a thing. After all," he gestured around the room to the nobles – all of whom were men which was immeasurably unpleasant for Hermione – "We wouldn't want another… scene… Would we, gentlemen?"

There was a chorus of muffled jeers that felt like a stab in the heart to Hermione.

Hmm… remember when Hermione suffered an unfortunate mental break that almost irreparably damaged her reputation and nearly got her written off as too ill to wear the crown?

Well…

It happened late in October, just before Pansy aptly named her spiral of emotional turmoil and was arguably the height – the peak was of course _during _her episode – of her unstable moods. During the last Council meeting, Uncle Colbert had managed to get under her skin with his snide, double-meaning commentary as he always did but unlike now, Hermione had very little control over her outbursts and said and did things very, _very_ unladylike.

(Alright, it was downright crazy, but she could agree, looking back on it, that it was decidedly not one of her finer moments, especially not as sovereign.)

Though, per usual, any degree of emotional expression was among notable errors belonging solely to those of the fairer sex and thus was treated as unfairly as can be expected from a room full of arrogant old men.

"So…" Her uncle had drawled, pursing his lips. "You're telling us that some village boy found on the edge of the Forbidden Forest is a _prince_, Your Majesty?" He didn't bother hiding the choking laugh that followed. "And a prince _of magic_ no less."

"It's true." Hermione had insisted. She didn't bother to point out that technically speaking, Draco was now king, seeing as she was already having a hard-enough time convincing them of her experience in the wizarding world so far.

"And this magical, wizarding kingdom exists… in the Forbidden Forest as well, Your Majesty?" He challenged, eying several noblemen's wary glances around him.

_Oh, only a part of it. Though, I'm not entirely sure how or where since basic geographical rules don't seem to apply to them, _she internally mused.

Outwardly, she replied with, "Yes. You know the history of their disappearance just as I do. The regions of their kingdom surround us but are obscured from our world by a boundary spell."

"Hm," Uncle Colbert grunted. "Tell me, Your Majesty, is this the same boy you've been seen traipsing around the castle with instead of entertaining your suitors like you were supposed to?"

Hermione bit her tongue in her mouth, tasting copper, and opted not to indulge in a response. From the avoidance of eye contact from Snape, she presumed her silence was as good as a confession.

"You have to understand, _Your Majesty_," – her title emanating from his lips as a malicious grin spread across them – "That we are simply looking for an explanation as to why you suddenly want to merge our peaceful and prosperous kingdom with _theirs_."

She shoved her shoulders back, willing herself to appear taller than she felt. "They have numerous advancements, skills, and teachings that would be wholly beneficial to our kingdom. As our ancestors once lived, we can once again coexist with wizards and witches and _all of us _will prosper." Her words escaping with a dangerously high octave.

The responding twist of her uncle's lips and shared look with an especially smug Fudge warned her – too late, unfortunately – that she had made a grave error.

"So, it is for our mutual benefit, Your Majesty?" Fudge said, standing to address her. "Because it seems to me, and to many of the respectable noblemen here, that your wish to ally our kingdom with theirs is based on some childish mutual affection shared between yourself and this apparent prince of magic."

Hermione shot to her feet, hands clenched into fists at her side, "That's absurd!"

"Do you deny it, Your Majesty?" Uncle Colbert pressed. "Your dalliance with the young man did not go unnoticed, however hard you may have tried… or not tried. Do you wish to welcome the wizarding world for the sake of keeping your bed warm by someone other than Lord Longbottom? How much _do_ you detest him, Your Majesty, to seek such lengths to avoid marrying him?"

"You are out of line, Uncle! May I remind you: _I am your Queen_."

"Oh, I have not forgotten."

His tone was as icy and threatening as the implication behind his words. The unspoken promise that he would once again rise to power.

"No." She scolded. "Clearly some things are beyond redeeming. Your manners for one, or did you purposefully leave out my title that time?" He opened his mouth to respond, but then wisely closed it again. Unlike him, however, Hermione did not wisely hold her tongue. "I beg of you, _dear Uncle_, give me a reason to throw you in the Tower. Give me a reason to hang you for treason!"

"Your Majesty," hissed Fudge.

"Not a word from you!" She spat, then resumed her ranting at her uncle, making her way down the dais and toward his seat in the upper levels of the right wing of the chamber. "You think you're so clever, don't you? 'Let's make everyone believe our naïve little queen has lost her bloody mind over some forlorn boy so that I may replace her as sovereign!' Because that's what you really want, isn't it, Uncle? You want my crown, my kingdom, my people."

She belted out a laugh, then backed up to sit in her throne emphatically.

"Well, I won't let you have it. Never. Again."

Her eyes, darker than ever before and engulfed in red and tears, bore into him as if doing so alone would somehow make him light up in treacherous flames.

Needless to say, her reputation among the palace – which had painstakingly been spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom in a matter of days – was in desperate need of fixing. She had poured her heart and soul into reestablishing herself as a trustworthy and capable monarch since then and was devastated to learn that despite her best efforts, her uncle and that worthless Fudge had still managed to turn the other nobles against her.

Now, watching her uncle twitch in anticipation of her losing her temper again, Hermione spread a false, amiable smile across her lips and nodded deeply to him. "Thank you, Uncle, for the kind reminder." She turned her attention briefly to the four members sitting across from her. "Thank you for your consideration, gentlemen."

Then, Hermione stood from her throne, clasping her hands together in front of her as the rest of the men in the room stood and bowed.

"This meeting is over. Council dismissed."

She immediately left the room, the sound of her heels clacking loudly against the marble floors as she moved swiftly past every man, ignoring the swiveling of their privileged heads in her direction.

. . .

_1 March 1456_

_4:31 pm_

"Draco," Theo said, popping his head into the expansive study Draco hid himself in when he was especially tired of his kingly duties and catering to greedy nobles.

He looked up from his empty glass and beckoned his friend and right-hand man inside the dark room.

"Isn't that a bit heavy to be drinking this early in the evening?"

"Perhaps," Draco said dismissively, then settled his stormy eyes on Theo's icy blue ones. "What is it?"

"Your mother wants to see you," he lamented in response.

"Ah, then it's not nearly heavy enough."

Draco tapped his wand to the bottle, further depositing a fair amount into the priceless glassware and swirled the dark liquid under his nose while throwing a taunting gaze to where Theo moved, languidly making his way across the room.

Theo's eyes narrowed slightly, betraying his otherwise lax behavior as his shoulders shrugged nonchalantly before lowering himself in the chair opposite Draco's desk.

"By all means," Draco went on. "Make yourself comfortable, Nott."

"Thank you, Your Incandescent-Highness." Theo grinned. He produced a small vial from his coat pocket and tossed it into Draco's waiting hand. "Your mother," he reminded him.

"Right, right. I'm going." He sighed, then downed the contents of the sobering potion before standing and straightening his kingly attire.

To say that Draco had not been prepared for his new role would be grossly understated.

True, as a prince Draco had been educated on the responsibilities of the crown and how one was wont to deal with them, but it had clearly been severely inept. He had often chosen to run off on some tangential quest or misdeed with Theo and Blaise rather than study or learn. He almost wished his parents had been stricter with him and damn-near forced him to acquire the skills – and not just the ones involving the wielding of a wand and an opponent – evidently immensely necessary for being king.

In reality, Draco had spent a little amount of his youth learning about what it really meant to be the leader of a kingdom… and of a wizarding one no less.

His first few months as King had been tumultuous; there was talk of his incompetence in the first week alone, and it hadn't gotten much better since despite his tiring efforts to please the kingdom and prove his worthiness to the nobles keeping him in power.

Yes, there was some aspect of divine right and all that, but in the magical world, God was more of an idea than an all-knowing deity. Therefore, if King Draco were to continue letting down his kingdom, he would likely lose the crown – the first to do so in all of their history of wizarding monarchs. His ancestor had been the first king of magic, stemming from the initial split from the muggle world and their monarchy, which would be incidentally one of Hermione's ancestors.

Hermione.

Oh, was _that_ a topic he hardly wanted to think about right now. Not because he didn't still love her and admire her with every fiber in his stupid, kingly being, but because he hadn't been able to see her – not even talk to her or message her – in months. Every day he woke with a sinking, empty feeling in his stomach that was hardly cured by copious amounts of tea (and by tea he most definitely meant Ogden's).

When he closed his eyes, he could practically see her beautiful brown eyes looking at him with an air of practicality that he found especially endearing surrounded by stacks of withered books and afternoon light shining through the open window, cool autumn breeze rushing through her curls. Haunting him. Tempting him to reach out and take them between his fingers, then pull her lips up to meet his.

The taste of her alone was enough to drive him mad.

Draco had to bring his current thought process to an immediate stop and focused on the problem at hand rather than any other even slightly arousing images of Hermione's hands and lips on his body. He had promised himself the moment the crown was placed on his head, saber and wand in hands, that he would do everything in his power to bring the boundary down – as he had once sworn to his father he would do – and reunite himself with Hermione.

One day.

Hopefully.

Against all odds it would seem.

The past few months Draco has met with nearly every important aristocrat in the hopes of starting his reign in the wizarding world with the indication of providing a prosperous future despite his apparent lack of knowledge and wherewithal. His intentions, though rooted largely in securing his position as king, were also discreetly about earning their trust just enough to push his agenda for intermingling their kingdom with the muggle one again, as it once had been nearly a century ago. Harmoniously, he hoped.

His coronation occurred no later than twenty-four hours after the death of his father (an event that had surprisingly depressed him and caused unimaginable pain and suffering) and defeat of the Dark Lord (something he wholly attributed to Hermione and would likely be unable to ever repay; though there was something that didn't sit well with him since then, and he had only just begun to piece together what that could be). The coronation of King Draco I was a spectacle unlike any other: wizards from all over the four Houses apparated into Slytherin to witness the birth of the new reign of their next monarch, celebrations went on for days and weeks with unlimited food, wine and activities to keep all of the guests happy, and no expense was spared in the décor gladly overlooked by his mother.

Even his crazy aunts had been able to make it (much to his displeasure). Aunt Andromeda was relatively tamer than the other, but that didn't make Draco any less on guard around her and her new husband, whom had been the reason that their mother (his maternal grandmother) had outcast her from the family and stricken her name from their bloodline. Technically, Aunt Andromeda was not even _allowed_ back in the House of Slytherin, but he had politely agreed to look the other way for the sake of his mother's wellbeing.

Mother had been immensely unstable since the death of his father, despite their not having been the ideal examples for a healthy and happy marriage. She'd been prone to raging mood swings satiated typically by a heavy dose of wine mixed with some abominable potion he lacked any interest in trying himself (though, as the cautious and ever-doting son, Draco had made sure its contents were safe enough for her daily consumption). Because of her unfavorable moods and ill behavior, Narcissa had been ordered to remain within the walls of the Manor with little company other than her eldest sister.

Aunt Bella fell on the far end of the spectrum of Black Sister Crazy, higher than both of her younger sisters. She existed somewhere effectively between Maniacal But High-Functioning and Batshit Without Remorse. She was the reason he loathed meeting with his mother these days. Her constant appearance at his mother's side meant that Draco could hardly stand any requests she sent his way, largely because most were ineffable along with being simply unpleasant.

As he made his way down the dark corridor with Theo in tow – Blaise was usually not far behind but Draco had sent him on a specific task that morning and didn't expect to see him until long after supper was served – he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and apparate himself far, far away (perhaps hidden deep within Ravenclaw's library).

"Draco," his mother slurred, glass in hand. "My precious son, my precious King,"

"Mother," he replied stiffly. To be honest, he still wasn't quite accustomed yet to the heightened attention she gave him the past few months – seeing as for most of his childhood she hardly spoke to him – and Aunt Bella whispering in her ear did little to ease his anxiety.

"Draco," she began again. "Bella tells me you are still planning to go through with this foolish idea of yours."

"Yes."

"Darling, why would you do such a thing?"

One thing Draco knew with absolute certainty, was that no matter how sloshed his mother appeared to be, when she called him _darling_ it was decidedly not an endearment. It was a slap in the face, and he did not care for it.

"Mother," he said, pursing his lips. "You forget your place."

"I am Queen Mother. My place is at your side, I do not forget such things." Narcissa shrugged.

Draco clenched his fists, then flicked his wand so that her wine was replaced with much-needed water and that a small vial appeared in her lap with a serving of crackers.

"Your place is not _at_ my side, Mother. This _foolish idea_ as you like to put it," though he knew that they both knew very well it was more than just an idea after months of his diplomatic labor, "is still happening. With or without your sobriety, though I do hope it's the former."

He saw something dark glint in her eyes and willed himself not to flinch; she had never been the parent he associated physical reprimands with, but it was likely not too late. Narcissa placed the glass loudly on the table and stood, strolling over to him and stroking his cheek. Again, Draco stiffened and forced himself not to wince or recoil from her strangely intimate gestures.

"Mother," he breathed.

"Draco, darling, forget about her."

"No," he retorted. Then, her hand wrapped itself with viper-like strength around his arm. Her eyes – typically glazed over in a drunken or saddened haze – focused on his so intently for the first time in months that it nearly shook him to his core. Suddenly, he felt captivated by every word slipping out of her red lips.

"She's nothing. A _muggle_. Let her go."

He broke free of her grip, then turned on his heel and quickly left the room without another word, the maniacal laugh of his delirious aunt echoing from the dining room and into the crowded Manor halls.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, taking deep and laborious breaths once out in the corridor, then angled himself down the hallway and into his next (even more dreaded) meeting.

_Out of the cauldron and into the fire, as they say,_ he mused internally.

"Want me to go in with you?" Theo said, returning to his position at Draco's side and arching a brow at the massive door in front of them. "I'm sure I can sway the jury," he winked suggestively.

Draco choked on a laugh threatening to rise up his throat, "If anyone can, it's certainly you, Nott. But, no. Go help Blaise, will you?"

"On it, chief." He replied, then with a single, playful salute Theo traipsed back down the hall and cut sharply around a corner, disappearing from Draco's line of sight.

He counted to three in his head, willed his face into a diplomatic, stoic expression, then entered the room to see his least favorite person as of late (including Crazy Aunt Bella): The Minister of Magic.

The Ministry was as newly formed as the wizarding monarchy, both having been established due to the lack of government after disengaging from the muggle world a century ago. The Minister of Magic, Albus Dumbledore, was an elder man with a straggled white beard far longer than an appropriately clean length. Most people, he imagined, looked upon this old man with fondness, and perhaps even respect, for his vast knowledge and wise ponderings. However, Draco could see right through the silly spectacles that sat on the man's hooked nose for the menace he truly was. Always speaking in riddles, and never forthcoming with information that was not absolutely rubbish.

Above all, Draco had spent the past few months – quite literally since the moment the ostentatious crown he never wore was placed ceremoniously atop his silver head – convincing this outlandish man that merging the wizarding and muggle worlds was in the kingdom's best interest.

"Your Majesty," Dumbledore greeted cheerfully upon Draco's entrance.

"Minister," he nodded.

"I see you've been quite serious about this deadline of yours," _Yes, imagine that, seeing as I've done nothing but emphasize it every time we've bloody met and _– "Pray tell, why is that, Your Majesty?" _Oh, for the love of _–

"Sir," Draco began in a falsely pleasant tone despite his frustration with the old man. "As I've told you numerous times, it would be a great benefit to our kingdom to lift the boundary spell one week from now."

"Hm," Dumbledore huffed, eying a glass bowl full of toffees on the low table between their seats. "May I, Your Majesty?"

Draco nodded.

"Wonderful things, these are. They're made by a humble worker over in Hufflepuff and then transported all throughout the kingdom. By owl, I presume, though we can't possibly rule out the newly invented floo network. Have you tried it, Your Majesty? It's quite a marvelous invention, I daresay."

Draco resisted the urge to tell Dumbledore that every bloody thing he came across he believed to be wonderful or marvelous or splendid when in most of the time, they were just ordinary.

"I have not, Sir, though I do hope to try it soon." He said instead.

"Do be careful with your pronunciations, young King, we wouldn't want to misplace you so soon."

He ignored the thinly veiled threat and attempted to steer the conversation back to something of normality. "The boundary, Minister?"

Dumbledore chewed his toffee at an abhorrently slow rate, making Draco nearly twitch with impatience. Then, he carefully plucked another one and unraveled its wrapper with painstaking deliberateness.

"I find it only fair that I answer your question, Your Majesty, when you answer mine." Dumbledore said, arching a white brow before plopping the sweet in his mouth.

"Our kingdom - " Draco started, but stopped at Dumbledore's wave of his hand. "Sir?"

Dumbledore, choosing not to acknowledge the irritation in his king's voice, crossed his legs and billowed out his periwinkle robes around him, making himself more comfortable in the plush sofa.

"Our kingdom has long prospered since its separation from the muggle one." He said matter-of-factly. "It is far more advanced than theirs, truth be told it always was, and therefore the Ministry sees no reason to realign our kingdom with theirs. Save for one."

His dark brown eyes fixed on Draco with uncharacteristic seriousness; it caused the young King to shift uncomfortably in his own seat, adjusting his emerald coat just to have something to do with his hands.

A young maiden entered the room with a tray of tea and biscuits, flashing a brilliant smile at the Minister before angling her purposefully pushed-up tits in His Majesty's view as she poured them both a scalding cup of tea.

Draco made no effort to acknowledge the girl, instead keeping his darkening grey eyes on that of the man before him who was currently chuckling under his breath as he selected one of the chocolate-covered biscuits from the plate.

"Ooh, dark chocolate! What a luxury. Absolutely splendid!"

His mind reeled long after the girl curtsied and fled the room, and he couldn't help but wonder what Dumbledore could have possibly meant by his comment. The Ministry would only allow the reunion of the two kingdoms for _one_ reason?

As if reading his thoughts, Dumbledore flicked crumbs out of his beard and smiled cheerfully at Draco between bites.

"Do you know what the Ministry demands in turn for the relinquishment of the boundary, Your Majesty?"

Draco sighed, tilting his teacup to his lips before replying. "A great deal, I gather."

"Well, yes, but what do you presume is at the top of their long list of demands?" He dunked his biscuit much too long in his tea and Draco arched a quizzical brow as it dissolved in the liquid. Dumbledore raised the teacup to his lips anyway and took a long sip before adding, "What is it our kingdom would stand to gain from the muggle world?"

When he remained silent, unable to even postulate what the Ministry could possibly want from Hermione or her people, Dumbledore reached into his robe pocket – his entire arm nearly disappearing in the process from what Draco deduced to be an extension charm – and produced an object which he placed non-too-carefully atop the plate of biscuits.

"Oh," Draco noted. "I see."

"Precisely," the man said, triumphantly leaning back and continuing to sip his tea.

He cleared his throat, eying the object on the table and met Dumbledore's sparkling eyes.

"So, the boundary?" Draco asked, hesitant to ask for the sake of sending Dumbledore on another tangent.

"Will be taken down in a week's time, provided that the paperwork goes smoothly over the next few days."

Draco bit his inner cheek, fighting the urge to outright smile in front of his Minister, who was hardly ever this lucid (really, that was possibly the longest conversation Draco had endured with as little distractions or digressions as they'd had).

After supper, Draco was propped up in his bed reading the most recent article published by the _Daily Prophet_ and was surprised to learn that despite how foreboding Dumbledore had made the abandonment of the boundary spell seem, the idea that the muggle world would be reintroduced into their daily society had been highly anticipated by witches and wizards across the four Houses.

He supposed that while he had been primarily concerned with pleasing the Ministry and gaining their approval, he had not thought of how the general public would perceive his idea.

Draco removed his spectacles and wound a hand through his hair as he set the bundle of parchment aside, catching a glimpse of the dark ink that remained on his left forearm. It was an unpleasant reminder of Riddle's control over him; the very thought that Lord Voldemort had once possessed his soul was a good a reason as any to cross the room and pick up the bottle of whiskey from his dresser.

However, there was a searing pain originating from his arm as he picked up the bottle, causing it to drop and crash into a thousand shards of glass around his bare feet. He swore and screamed, teetering through the glass on the floor toward the wand on the other side of the room.

Draco quickly sent an _episkey_ over his feet and then a _harmonia nectere passus_ over the glass, setting the newly formed bottle on a nearby nightstand.

Later that night, Draco would wake to a thunderous rapping on his bedchamber doors, followed by a loud _alohomora _and someone shoving another aside with a disgruntled, "It's already unlocked, you mindless boggart, did you even _try_ to open it before pulling out your wand?"

The immediate response was a sharp intake of breath with, "Mindless boggart? WHO ARE YOU CALLING A MINDLESS BOGGART?"

"Oh, shut up, Nott!"

Draco chuckled, smothering it in a robe he wrapped around himself just as his two best friends stumbled through the doorway, halting their bickering at his amused expression.

"You really should lock that, you know." Theo supplied; arms crossed. "You don't want just anyone walking in here in the middle of the night and murdering you, do you?"

"Ah, so that's why you're here, I take it?" He asked, glancing between Theo's haughty grin and Blaise's exasperated shake of his head.

"We found it."

Draco's amused expression vanished instantly at Blaise's words, then he motioned for them to shut the door before murmuring _colloportus _and _muffliato_.

"Oh, so you _do_ know how to lock doors, Your Swotty-Highness." Theo mumbled, making himself comfortable on one of the sofa's in Draco's antechamber.

"Where is it?" Draco asked, ignoring Theo and directing his widened eyes at Blaise, who dug around a rucksack and produced a charred, sizeable skull on the table between them. "You're sure it's the right one?"

Theo scoffed, picking up the skull and tossing it back and forth in his hands. "How many twelve-foot snakes do _you_ know? Of course, it's the right one."

Then, he let the skull go flying towards Draco who caught it unwillingly. Instantaneously, he felt his eyes roll back and flashes of distorted images presented themselves in his vision, blurring between his reality and whatever his brain wanted him to see.

There was a sensation of desperation as he – no not Draco, the snake – coiled in on itself and bared its fangs at the two figures standing overhead. They brandished their wands and the last image Draco saw before waking from this vision was flames coming right at him – the snake.

He stirred, sweat dripping down his temples and chest, to see Theo and Blaise hovering above him with twin looks of distress displayed across their faces.

"You ok?" Theo ventured, helping Draco back into a sitting position as Blaise picked the skull off the floor and shoved it back into his bag.

"Yeah," Draco said, raising a hand to his warm forehead. "I'm fine… that was just… nothing."

Theo and Blaise exchanged a look that Draco knew meant they did not believe for one second that _nothing_ had just happened to him, but luckily, they did not press him any further for information.

"Well," Blaise said, pulling Theo along with him. "We'll let you rest then. Night, Draco."

"Night," he muttered, falling back into the plush cushions and sighing heavily as the door clicked behind their exit.

. . .

_6 March 1456_

_9:49 am_

Hermione was jarred from her internal reverie by the slight and polite cough from someone behind her on the tower. She turned to face the interruption, the warm winds tangled her hair, whipping it furiously around her pale face were a welcome reprieve from the dull and dreary winter. Hopefully the early seasonal warmth would be indicative of a prosperous spring – both figuratively and literally.

"Hello, Daph," she greeted with a shy smile.

"Enjoying the weather?" Daphne asked, moving to stand beside Hermione with a wave of floral scents from her oils. "Or avoiding your afternoon meeting with Minerva?"

The sly grin forming at the corner of her lips caused Hermione to huff her indignation quietly. While Daphne's beauty never ceased to amaze her, even with harsh winds toying with her golden locks and flushed cheeks from the slight exhaustion of climbing up the many stairs of the tower.

"A bit of both," she admitted under her breath, then turned and signaled to Dean and Seamus that she was ready to leave.

Her black, velvet skirts were heavy beneath her delicate hands; Hermione had requested several new gowns to be made for a period of mourning which she wore exclusively over the past months. Tomorrow would mark the sixth month of mourning which was a considerably lengthy amount of time for a monarch to command the grieving of the palace in respect to her fallen knight and companion (most often, mourning dress would only follow for days or even a week). However, the palace was deeply unaware that her chosen time period was also due to the untimely death of Draco's father, the former king of magic (which, in respect to the death of a nearby monarch, six months was an appropriate, if not somewhat short, amount of time for mourning dress).

Before Hermione descended the winding staircase, an owl screeched from above as it encircled her party and swooped below, dropping a letter in her waiting hands. It flew away, its sleek black feathers glinting in the spotty sunlight, and she tore her gaze away from the unusual sight to the even more peculiar note in her hands.

She could sense Dean's uneasiness beside her and shot him a quizzical look, begging the question of its safety. He simply eyed the small sheet of parchment, rolled neatly in silver ribbon, and nodded his assent. Hermione tore at the knotted ribbon, impatient as she always was, to read the contents of the strange, owl-delivered message.

The second she finished reading the few words scrawled in perfect scripture across the yellowed parchment, her heart pounded in her chest, leaping dangerously into her throat.

"Well?" Daphne prompted, unable to hide her own curiosity as she glanced between Hermione and Dean, the only other member among them close enough to read the letter's contents. "What does it say?"

Hermione bit back the smile forming on her lips and passed the note back to Daphne where Seamus shamelessly leaned over to read it with her. In her head, Hermione repeated the words that jumpstarted her heart and sent electric waves over the course of her body.

_H –_

_In two days, meet me where I first laid eyes on you as the sun sets below the horizon._

_Yours forever,_

_D_

. . .

**A/N - **So sorry for not posting last week! The holiday went on longer than I thought, but here we are! I will be posting ANOTHER chapter tomorrow as well as a bit of an apology :) So excited for the next part of this story and I hope you are as well!


	9. The Touch

. . .

_**Chapter 9 – The Touch**_

. . .

_8 March 1456_

_6:54 pm_

Draco stood at the edge of the boundary with Theo and Blaise at his side and a frantic-looking Hermione walking along the other side of the protective spell, and, like the last time they had all been in this very position, Draco felt a sense of ease wash over him as he looked upon her. Though, unlike last time, there would be no need to try and fight the boundary in order to reach her, to take her in his arms.

"Are you ready?" Theo asked him, and Draco knew the question held more than just the usual _Are you ready to do this?_

It was: _Are you ready for what comes next? Are you ready for the life with muggles you always wanted? Are you ready to have to fight for her again? Are you ready for everything to change? Are you ready? Are you?_

It was a fair question, but it was also one he had always felt prepared for and so it required little hesitation on his part.

Of course, he was ready. For them. For her. For all of it.

For as long as he could remember, this moment was all he'd ever wanted.

"Yes."

Then, Draco met Dumbledore's gaze further down the line of wizards who'd gathered to meet the muggle queen and her entourage, and he nodded to the old man and watched as he raised his wand high above his head.

Draco lifted his as well and sent brilliant, bright blue sparks from the end of his wand that would take down the boundary spell and change his life – and those of everyone's around him – forever.

It felt like the first time seeing her all over again, when her eyes squinted through the disappearing haze that was the boundary at him and a radiant smile spread across her lips. Her features lit up as the smile encompassed her delicate face, and her curls bounced as she teetered on the balls of her feet, burgundy skirts bunched in her tiny fists.

Once the boundary was fully destroyed, he let out a single deep breath and placed one foot in front of the other, crossing the few meters that separated them. As much as Draco wanted to take her in his arms, he held back and formally bowed to her instead, giving her a crooked smirk as he glanced up to meet her brown eyes.

"Queen Hermione," he said.

Hermione dropped into a perfect, low curtsy and returned his smirk with a soft whisper of, "King Draco,"

Draco knew he would remember that moment for the rest of his life – one he would hopefully spend by her side if he had anything to say about it – and the sound of his name on her lips after a nauseatingly long time apart.

Then, he beckoned her forward, offering his kingly arm for her to hook her queenly one into as he led her toward his House. He noticed her flush, crane her neck to look behind her before peeking up at him with a tint of concern flashing in her warm eyes.

"They are welcome to join you, of course," Draco remarked, acknowledging the crowd of muggles that had been standing loyally behind their queen.

She motioned briefly to her close guards – whom Draco recognized along with a hint of bile rising in his throat at the new face among them, presumably taking the place of the boy who Riddle had murdered in front of her – and the two of them immediately sent more signals to others down the line, sending a waterfall effect cascading down the crowd.

Knights flanked the far sides of their beloved queen, moving in to ensure her escort through this strange, new world would be a safe one, as if Draco would ever let any harm come to her.

He noticed that between the border of knights forming were, for the most part, civilians. With what little time he spent looking over them before directing his attention back to steering Hermione through his kingdom toward the Manor, Draco recognized several faces he'd frequently encountered during his time in her world.

The gown Hermione chose to wear appeared to be considerably lighter than the ones she wore when he last spent time with her; its layers of skirts were made from thinner fabric and its sleeves and neckline were both shorter, allowing for more of her fair skin to show.

This particular detail was of great importance to Draco as it provided him with the immediate knowledge – as well as her waiting at the boundary without a proper escort – that she had not been married.

"No ring," he commented, brushing his bare knuckles against her own.

"No," she whispered. "No crown either."

Her eyes flickered briefly to the top of his head before resting on the bejeweled additions to his coat and the gold necklace, both indications of his new title. At least he had to humility and sense to remain silent on her comment (and its implication of how sexist divine right could be).

As they made their way through the main street of the House of Slytherin, Draco was pleased to stop his babbling about this and that in favor of reveling in the quiet look of astonishment that enveloped Hermione's face. They continued in pleasant silence until they reached the outer courtyard that led up to the grand entrance of Malfoy Manor.

"This is your palace?" She asked, eyes widening as she shifted her gaze from the Manor to Draco's expectant face.

"Yes,"

He tried to see his home through her fresh, unexpecting muggle eyes.

The stonework and archways were, for the most part, similar to that of her world if a little more gothic in architectural tones. The hedges and flowers were cut and groomed to perfection and although they appeared to be of the same nature as the ones in some of her expansive gardens, these were inherently different upon closer inspection. The glimmer and sparkle on the petals glittered in the waning rays of sunshine, and the dark green of the leaves and stems danced in the nonexistent wind; their mood ever-changing and apparently right now they were quite content.

The pebbled pathway leading up to the grandeur black gate separating the outer garden from the remainder of the palace, gave way easily beneath their feet, predicting their intended step and creating a perfectly sized hole for their foot placement.

A small gasp escaped her mouth as Hermione realized this minute phenomena, and it stirred further excitement in Draco's bones. He wondered what she would think of his grand ballroom and the subsequent ball he threw in honor of such a joyous occasion.

At the large, gothic doors that stood over twenty-feet tall, Draco reached out with his wand and slid it along a complex path in the door's framework, then drew the password allowing for entrance into the Manor.

The doors gave way and Draco continued his tour through the main hallways of the palace, practically willing himself to slow down and speak at a normal pace but it was no use, he was too excited.

Finally, they arrived at the ballroom; its ornate, silver doors Draco theatrically threw open for Hermione, then gestured for her to step over the threshold.

"Oh…" Hermione gaped, blinking. "Wow."

He stepped aside to let the others behind them come into the room and descend the double stairs on either side of the main balcony to join the witches and wizards who had already begun celebrating as their new king welcomed the muggles into their world.

He caught the disapproving eye of his mother, but he shook her from his thoughts and turned his attention back to the woman at his side.

"What do you think?"

"It's – I – This is - " She sputtered, unable to coherently form a proper response. He hid a laugh in his hand, drawing it down his mouth.

"All for you,"

"What? Really?"

"Come on,"

A smile flashed brilliantly across his face, and Draco found himself incapable of keeping up his abhorrently formal behavior. His hand darted out, catching her wrist and tugging her gently toward the stairs so that they could join everyone else on the main floor.

"Dance with me?"

"Yes," she replied, without a moment's hesitation and it was all Draco could do not to disappear with her in some obscure room in the Manor and pin her up against a wall.

He bowed, ever the proper upbringing – and intimately familiar with muggle customs now – then placed one hand firmly in hers before pulling her slim waist closer to him with the other, fingers possessively digging into the rich fabrics of her gown.

"So," Draco began, turning her to the soft melody that echoed around them, "How have you been?"

"Fine," she lied.

"It's ok if you're not… fine, I mean. I know I'm not. I've been going through hell these past six months," he murmured, instinctively pulling her closer to his chest as if by intimacy alone, she would heal him. "First losing my father, then you… it was all a bit too much." He stopped himself, clearing his throat to admit a bit more lightly, "On top of that, I had to somehow learn how to be King."

"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes searching his.

He shook his head, "What do you have to be sorry for? You saved my life, and the lives of my entire kingdom, my entire world. What you did for us, Hermione, was no small feat and it has certainly not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. My people," he paused, nodding to those around them who were native to Slytherin. "It is not something they will forget, in fact, I'm delighted to tell you they were all too thrilled to be hosting you and your people tonight."

"I wish I could say the same of my people," she muttered, a frown forming for a brief second on her pretty face.

"They seem plenty happy to be here," he noted.

Both their heads surveyed the room as he spun her around in his arm; there was an unexpected amount of intermingling between both of their people with flushed, broad grins painted on nearly everybody's face.

"Well," Draco said arching a skeptical brow toward the brooding man in the sinister dark robes. "Except, perhaps, him."

Hermione sighed, "That's Snape for you. Ever the life of the party."

"I can see that," he mused.

"I'm surprised he agreed to come at all, actually." She said, adding, "No other members of the Council had even the slightest desire to accompany me here tonight."

"They aren't too thrilled to associate with wizards and witches and all the other creatures who go bump in the night, I take it?"

She scoffed, "No. They were quick to dismiss my efforts to allow our kingdoms to interact."

Draco looked away from the man, his dark eyes boring into him from all the way across the ballroom, and turned to Hermione, catching the last bit of what she said and taking a minute to process it.

"Then, how are you here? I thought you were tied to their demands just as I am with the Ministry," he said, brows furrowed.

"I am, but there was a loophole." She smirked at his curious expression, leaned away from him per the heightening of the score, then twirled back into his ready arms with a small gasp - one that did wonders for his highly suppressed libido – "They have the right to veto any laws I want to push forward that involve the involuntary action of our people, such as establishing your people in our every day society. But they can't rule against any action that is deemed voluntary, such as visiting your world."

"Ah," Draco noted, mentally recording that for near-future endeavors. "Very clever of you, Hermione."

"Thank you, Draco," she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his as he pulled her in for the final count of the dance. "You had no trouble convincing your… Ministry?" – he nodded – "that the reunion of the wizarding world and the muggle one would be beneficial, I take it?"

He cocked his head to the side, considering how much information would be appropriate to divulge at the moment.

"There were a few conditions,"

"Which were?"

The music came to a beautiful stop, signaling the end of the current dance, and Draco released her from his arms only to tuck her hand in his again and lead her away from the dance floor.

"Come," he told her, bending slightly to whisper in her ear. "I have some people I would like to introduce you to."

"Little Queen!" Came the thunderous voice of Theo as he bounded toward them.

"Hello, Theo," she greeted cheerfully.

"Not him" Draco noted drily, though neither of them seemed to be paying him anymore attention.

"Or, should I say, _Gloriana_." Theo remarked, taking her into his arms in a rather bold, non-muggle fashion.

Hermione bit her lip, holding back laughter as he released her, and nearly stumbled if not for Draco's hand finding the small of her back.

"Pardon?"

"It's nothing," Draco said, then attempted to swat Theo aside, but much to his dismay, it didn't work on his lanky and grossly stubborn best friend.

"It's not _nothing_," Theo commented, exasperated. He swept a hand through his hair and gave her an excited smile – which Draco immensely bemoaned knowing what was coming next – then proceeded to say, "It's all over the _Daily Prophet_."

"All over… what?" Hermione tried, then shook her head, clearing any confusion Theo so aptly deposited onto her. "Wait, _what_ is?"

"You," Theo said, "and His Lamented-Highness, of course. You're in the papers." He pulled his wand from his coat pocket and _accio_'d the very article that he had been referring to, handing the parchment over to Hermione with a devilish grin. "Here,"

"What is it?" Hermione questioned, arching a brow in both of their directions.

Draco sighed, utterly displeased at not only having to relive the contents of the article by way of explaining it to her, but also indulging in what was clearly some plot of Theo's to wreak havoc on his precious time with Hermione.

_Was treason entirely out of the question? Was it _really _a stretch?_ he mused internally.

"It's just some gossip piece about our separation, that's all." Draco said, attempting to lift the papers from her grasp.

She tugged it away, eying the image sprawled across the front page below the headline: GLORIANA AND THE HEARTBREAK PRINCE, EXCLUSIVE DETAILS INSIDE ABOUT THE BATTLE AND THE ROYAL COUPLE THAT SPRUNG FROM ITS ASHES.

(Draco knew a load of bollocks was what it was, especially since Rita Skeeter was the last person the Malfoy's would ever let in on any of their secrets. Unfortunately, the article _did_ have some interesting – and semi-factual – information provided by some wizards and witches that had been there to witness Hermione's destruction of none other than the infamous Lord Voldemort.)

"It's moving!" Hermione gasped, her head snapping up from the image to meet his awaiting gaze.

"Oh, yes," Theo inserted. "That's quite normal, and a bit overdone if you ask me. I say there ought to be something more extraordinary for front page news like that."

Draco pretended not to have seen the image – one where he held Hermione in his arms, coaxing her back to consciousness, with Riddle's ashes falling around them like some ominous snowfall – in order to get Hermione to hand the paper over to him.

"Hey!" Theo said, leaping forward but Draco had already lit the crumpled parchment in his hand in a small flame and then flicked his wand to cast an extinguishing spell. "That was _my_ copy!"

"I'll buy you a new one," he said, shrugging.

Theo shoved his arms in his trouser pockets, scowling with false rigor, "No, you won't."

"No, I won't."

"So, Theo, have you met any interesting muggles? Other than myself, of course." Hermione said, attempting to change the topic of conversation and successfully doing so.

"In fact, Little Queen, I_ have_!"

"Oh, do tell, who is it?"

Theo turned her chin and directed her line of sight toward an older woman, with grey hair and a hardened expression that immediately made Draco's blood run cold.

"_Minerva_?" Hermione gaped. "You must be joking,"

"Oh, _she_ certainly was." Theo nodded. "Minnie's got quite a sense of humor I'll tell you that. A bit morbid, but truly unparallel."

"I - " Hermione started, then closed her mouth.

Draco had to agree, there was no words for what Theo was implying.

"Anyway," Theo stated, bringing his short-attention span back to Hermione, "This muggle gown is most becoming of you, I have to say. It's a significant improvement on the last one you wore, covered in mud and blood and all that fun stuff," he said, waving a hand toward her deep-red skirts with an air of affectation. "Though, do remind me to have your people get in touch with my people and then we can get you into something a bit more… magical."

And then, to Draco's great horror, Theo winked at Hermione.

"You don't look too bad yourself," she commented, color quickly spreading over her fair complexion and startling Draco into what could only guiltily be described as a frantic case of jealousy.

"Yes, yes. You're both gorgeous. Move along, Theo, I have other people I need her to meet."

"Hm," Theo grunted, clearly displeased at being dismissed so quickly. He made a poor gesture at hiding his next statement from Draco's earshot. "None of them will be _nearly_ as wonderful as I am, I can assure you of that Little Queen, but nevertheless His Impatient-Highness awaits."

Theo made a grand gesture of kissing her knuckles before directing himself toward a table of dancing and singing silverware.

"Theo!" Hermione called out over her shoulder as Draco attempted to lead her away again. "Do try not to influence my ladies with your debauchery and charm too terribly while I'm otherwise occupied!"

In response, he offered her a naughty grin before disappearing into the fanciful crowd.

"You know," Draco started, peering down at her with a slight look of disapproval. "He hardly needs to be encouraged, and you've all but _invited_ him to do precisely as you asked him not to."

She shrugged, "Oh, I know."

In reality, Draco loathed having to introduce Hermione to many of his people. The only ones he felt were really worth getting to know _were_ Tweedled Dee and Tweedled Dum (whom he'd just hurriedly moved her away from), but it would be of great disrespect for him not to introduce her to esteemed nobility of the House of Slytherin. Seeing as Draco was still uneasy about his current position in their eyes, he felt it best to play the doting diplomat for some of the evening.

Once they'd finally run through the essential nobles, he unwillingly led her to Dumbledore, who was currently humming along to something that was wholly dissimilar to the music echoing around the rest of the ballroom while staring at the bewitched floor.

For this evening, Draco had instructed the ballroom floor be something not entirely too different from your average night sky – complete with twinkling stars and shooting comets – for the sake of not overwhelming his muggle guests.

"Minister of Magic," Draco greeted, offering a polite nod to the old man and remarkably drawing his attention away from a red planet that shone beneath their feet. "I'd like you to meet Her Royal Highness, Hermione Granger."

"Your Majesty," Dumbledore said, bending into a formidable bow considering his age, "I cannot tell you what an honor it is to finally meet you."

"Minister," she addressed kindly, "It's my pleasure as well."

_Great_, Draco thought, _Now that that's out of the way, I'll just –_

"Your Majesty, have you ever had a treacle tart?"

_Balls_.

"I can't save that I have, Sir," Hermione said, politely extending an open hand to receive the treat Dumbledore gently deposited; Draco fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose at the familiar headache forming from spending any amount of time around the Minister of Magic.

He held out a tart for Draco, who graciously refused, then signaled to Theo from across the ballroom, hoping to get some help escaping their current situation.

Hermione chewed slowly – he imagined how badly the sweet must be sticking to her teeth, wishing that he could have somehow warned her not to indulge the old man – and then stated, "It's lovely, Sir."

"I was hoping you would like it. Plenty more where that came from, of course, Your Majesty." Dumbledore beamed.

Draco desperately sent another signal to Theo, who glanced up from the young muggle woman he was talking to in order to return Draco's message with one of his own: a display of his signet ring on the wrong hand.

They were on their own, it seemed. Traitor.

"Oh, but Minister, we wouldn't want our guest of honor filling up on those when there are so many foods for her to try, now would we?" Draco tried, softly nudging Hermione further away from him so that they could make a swift exit when the opportune moment arose.

"Right you are, King Draco," he said, then shifted his jaunty expression and (slightly patronizing) wagging finger toward Hermione. "Our magical world must have so many exciting new things for you and your people to try… foods, books, hats - "

Draco's head immediately snapped up.

"ANYWAY," he interrupted at a volume considerably higher than necessary.

He cleared his throat, nearly shoving Hermione away from Dumbledore as he directed them away from the floating arrangements of food and back toward the dance floor, now crowded with an equal mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

"Sorry about that. He can be a bit…" He mumbled, his words trailing off as he struggled to find an appropriate – yet accurate – adjective to describe the infamous Albus Dumbledore.

"Eccentric?" Hermione proposed, validating his belief that she was in fact the brightest of her age, witches and wizards included.

"Yes," he agreed. "That's it." Then, he held out a hand for her to take as they stood on the edge of the enchanted dance floor, a shooting star passing by at the precise moment her gaze dropped to her feet. "Shall we?"

"Actually," Hermione started, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment before abruptly letting it go (and frustratingly making Draco yearn to take it between his teeth instead). "My feet are _killing_ me in these shoes." She grimaced as if she'd just confessed to an actual crime. "Daphne and Pansy insisted that I wear them, but _bloody hell_, they are rubbing me something horrible."

"Watch this," he grinned, then knelt down and moved to lift the bottom of her skirts, quickly pausing to add, "May I?"

Instantly, her eyes widened, and a tender rose flushed over her cheeks, but she nodded her consent despite the anxious reaction.

Draco took off her heel with one hand, gently placing it on the floor and trading it for his wand, then held the soft sole of her foot in his other hand. He murmured a cushioning spell into the heel before slipping her bare foot back into it. He repeated the process again with the other foot, then stood straight, giving her a proud smile.

"Better?"

"Much," she gushed. "Thank you, Draco."

"My pleasure,"

She granted him the honor of the next two dances; both of which were incredibly fast-paced and required much effort on both of their parts to keep up with the others on the dance floor. For what great shape Draco was in, he had to admit even he was a bit winded by the end of the second song and gladly moved to the side when Hermione requested a moment to rest and gather her breath.

He spotted a curious blonde just to the right of where they stepped away and called out for her to come over, a genius idea popping into his kingly mind.

"Lady Luna Lovegood," he smiled, "Her Royal Highness, Hermione Granger."

"Hello, Queen Hermione," Luna said, dropping into a curtsy; the butterflies no-doubt charmed to fly around her gown, mirroring the complex design of their orange and black wings, fluttered briefly over to Hermione, perching on her loose curls before returning back to Luna.

"Lady Lovegood," Hermione replied.

"Luna," Draco interrupted, his hand cupping her elbow as he leaned closer into her. "Would you do me the favor of showing Her Majesty to the Venus Room? I believe she could use a few minutes of quiet and rest."

"Oh, my, that's a lovely room. I think you'll be rather fond of it, Queen Hermione. It's got hardly any Nargles this time of year." Luna stated matter-of-factly, a shy smile forming on her pink lips despite the continued wandering of her eyes.

Hermione's face pinched as she mouthed, "Nargles?" in his direction, but it resumed its usually schooled appearance no less than five seconds later; just enough time for him – who had likely been raised with similarly strict standards of emotional micro-expression – to catch it.

He shot Hermione a knowing smirk before addressing the two men that had been no less than three meters away the entire night thus far, "Oh, gentlemen… Dean and…?"

"Seamus," the shorter of the two knights replied.

"Seamus," Draco repeated, a pleasant expression still fixed on his high cheekbones. "You won't be allowed in the room, I'm afraid. Women only, you understand. Feel free to wait outside, though."

The two of them gave gruff nods before trailing after their queen, who spared Draco one last confusing look as she turned around the corner, being led from the grand ballroom by Luna.

Draco had to wait a total of fifteen minutes – during which he made a spectacle of himself by entertaining his more boisterous aristocrats as well as delivering a charming, quick toast welcoming the muggle guests – before Hermione reappeared in the room with her guards flanking her, Luna nowhere to be seen.

Then, he excused himself on account of some account of Things a King Needs To Do (feat. Please Don't Ask Questions) and immediately left the ballroom, whipping out a golden trinket from one of his inner coat pockets and turning its dial once.

He watched, mesmerized, as the air around him began to shift, time turning back just enough for him to witness Luna, Hermione, and her guards all walk backwards down the hall and back into the ballroom.

Draco slipped the tiny object back into his inner pocket, buttoned his coat, and strode confidently down the corridor, heading for the Venus Room. He hadn't lied about it being a room strictly dedicated for women, though he knew without a doubt that none would currently be occupying it and therefore hastily ducked in and hid himself in the shadows of one of its corners.

He didn't have to wait long for Hermione and Luna to show up – Hermione's guards demanding to check the room for security reasons as expected, and Luna insisting that it was hardly necessary and also a direct violation of the room's creation, then shooing them back out into the hallway as expected – and make quick work of getting Hermione's attention.

"Lady Lovegood," she said, in a pitch above what would be presumed casual in any world.

"Please, call me Luna."

"Luna… Would you mind terribly if I inconvenienced you further?"

"I suppose I might, but it's hardly my place to deny you such a request, Your Majesty." Luna replied, tilting her head and letting her several braids fall around her face. "What is it that you would like me to do for you?"

"Well," Hermione began, clasping and unclasping her hands. "I require some… lady things… tissues, of sorts…"

"Hm, we don't have anything like that here, Queen Hermione. Witches don't exactly need those anymore since our medical advancements have far surpassed those of the muggle world we once belonged to. Your world."

"Err," Hermione faltered, then shouted as Luna nearly stumbled upon Draco's hiding place. "Lady Parkinson! Yes, my lady in waiting. She will have some or know where to find some. Would you find her and bring some back for me, Luna?"

"If I must," she replied with a nonchalant shrug, then left the room in a whirl of butterflies and off-beat humming.

Draco emerged to wrap his arms around Hermione's small frame, burrowing his face in her neck and inhaling the sweet scent of roses that always accompanied her.

"Hi," he murmured into her hair.

"Hi,"

They held each other for a long minute before he pulled away enough to place sweet kisses on her neck, her cheek, her earlobe. She gave a small sigh of content before wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling herself up as her hands tugged at his hair.

"How did you - "

"Something I found when going through some of my father's things. It's of little importance," he non-explained.

Hermione arched a brow, her hands still clinging to him as he held them firmly together. "Of little importance?"

"It's just another magical object," he shrugged.

"Right," she sighed, shaking her head. "Of course."

Whatever questions her ever-curious mind had left must have dissolved themselves as his hands slid down to her thighs, holding onto them tightly as he lifted her and settled her on top of one of the vanity tables in the room. He pulled the small chair back and somehow fit his tall figure into it.

"You know," she said breathlessly. "I adore you, Draco, and somehow I'm crazier for you than I was when we first met even though I haven't seen you since. I'm lost in your eyes,"

"I'm hopeless. I counted the hours, the days, the miles between us, and then I finally saw you there and I wanted to run for my life."

"It's been a long time coming,"

He nodded, placing a gentle kiss to the palm of her hand, his cheek resting in it.

"It's you and me," he said. "That's my whole world."

"It's you and me," she repeated. "There's nothing like this: _Gloriana and The Heartbreak Prince_,"

He laughed, "I was voted _Most Likely to Run Away with You_."

Hermione gave him a crooked smile, "There may be a storm coming, my soft summer prince, and I don't want you to go, I don't want to fight because nobody is going to win. Not the Ministry, not the Council."

"I know, Hermione. I know, but I believe that there isn't anything we can't survive." Then, Draco let his hands busy themselves with navigating under her skirts as their touching moment came to a natural lull.

She bit her lip, concealing what he hoped was amusement as much as it was arousal, "I thought you said you were going to court me _the right way_ according to my people's customs."

"And I will," he conceded. "In public."

His fingers found the top clasps of her stockings, gently undoing them and slowly unraveling them, feeling goosebumps rise as he traced along her inner thigh.

"And in private?"

The cotton of her knickers was soft and clean (but not for long if he could help it), and when his palm slid against her lips, he reveled in her shortness of breath.

"For arguments sake, let's say that I'd like to court you _the wrong way_." He slipped a finger under the elastic band, careful not to actually touch her _there_, only where her hipbone curved. "Would that be alright… Your Majesty?" He whispered, placing a kiss to her inner knee.

"Yes," she breathed.

"Good."

Then, he stood, pulling her chest to his and tilting her chin up so that their lips met; sweet and gentle at first, then rougher. Suddenly Draco was overcome by all of his pent-up emotion and sexual frustration at having Hermione so far from him, having her so far from his touch.

Luckily, she didn't seem to mind.

Her breath was warm and quick, her lips falling open in his as his palm returned to her knickers, creating a gentle friction that he knew would not destroy the her _sacred_ virginity (what he believed to be a load of rubbish in the way her religion protected it so fiercely, but he could see how for a monarch, the protection of their bloodline was absolutely necessary – so Draco steered clear of anything that would result in damaging it). However, that didn't mean he planned to entirely forego her pleasure.

His thumb rubbed against her clit through the thin fabric, and her head leaned back against the mirrors of the vanity table in response to his movement. With her neck exposed, he placed a trail of kisses and love bites down her pale skin, all the way down from her jaw to the top of her breasts, rising and falling with every ragged breath she took.

He could feel her thighs start to quiver as the tension between her legs escalated. Taking his time, wanting to stretch this moment out for as long as he possibly could, he moved his other hand – previously digging into her waist or lifting her leg to rest on his hip – to the pretty ribbon tied in the front of her gown. Slowly, he undid the ribbon, loosening her corset, and dipped his hand beneath the fabric to better expose her breasts.

A small kiss to the corner of her mouth, then he lowered his own to the protruding nipple of her breast, rolling it between his tongue. He reveled in the sharp inhale she gave in response, her nails digging into his back, shoulders, neck further. He couldn't wait to see the marks she left and think about the feeling of her, soaking wet, beneath his palm as she came with a strangled cry into the crook of his neck.

They caught their breath for a minute, neither saying anything, until she peered lazily up at him, her warm brown eyes glazed over in ecstasy.

"Draco," she whispered against his lips.

"Hermione," he replied, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Her small hands found their way to his erection, stroking him where he pushed against his trousers, begging to be let out.

One second of pleasure; one second to appreciate the feeling of him between her skilled fingers, then he would have to pull away.

He gently slid his hand in hers, guiding it away from him and giving her his best smolder.

"Let me," she croaked.

"No, Hermione."

"Please,"

_Fuck_.

"We don't have time," he lamented, struggling with every logical cell in his stupid, male brain. He checked his wand for the approximate time, then helped her off the table and back on her own two feet. "You have to be back in the ballroom in less than two minutes."

"What?" She gulped, glancing down at her wild appearance. "I'll never be ready to be seen in public in time. There's absolutely no way, Draco!"

The smirk that spread across his lips as he held up his wand in front of her resulted in the most simultaneously exasperated and indebted look on Hermione's face.

Ah, thank fuck for magic, eh?

Which is how, less than two minutes later, Hermione emerged from the Venus Room to return to the ballroom with Dean and Seamus on either side of her, and how Draco managed to wank out a quick one then turn the corner of one of the corridors just in time to see his other-self disappear.

Perfect.

. . .

_8 March 1456_

_9:27 pm_

Theo knew he was not the kind of handsome that turned heads. He didn't have the ethereal features that Draco had that made him appear to be some kind of angel sent from Heaven in certain lighting. Nor did he have the captivating muscle tone that Blaise had that made women flock to his side even though it was clear he wanted nothing to do with them.

No, Theo was the kind of awkward that could only be considered attractive if one believed the underdog always deserved to win.

(Yes, Theo _did_ have more success at… sexual congress… than Draco or Blaise, but if that was true it was solely because of his hard work at securing the most winning personality and some foolish self-esteem issue that he was grossly trying to compensate for. Bugger off.)

He had dusty blonde hair that always seemed to feel dirty when standing beside Draco's fine, silver hair (not to mention his always found a way to stand on end while Draco's fell effortlessly into place; that bastard seemed to have divine right to bloody everything, didn't he?) His pale eyes, possibly the only truly beautiful thing about him, were no match for those of Blaise Zabini because of their contrast to his darker skin, giving him an unfair advantage at using their icy blue color to charm others.

So, it was with undisputable shock that Theo found himself talking to the most beautiful woman in the room.

"You again," she commented, sidling up next to him.

Technically they had brushed past each other a few times earlier in the evening, but Theo had written off as a genuine mistake on her part. Apparently not. Excellent. Really fucking excellent. Now all he had to do was not muck it up, which meant being his less Peculiar Self and more his Charismatic Self.

"Me again," he shrugged nonchalantly.

She stood before him, looking all gorgeous and completely out of his league, and Theo caught the slight movement of Draco over her head. He was calling out for help, to be rescued by Theo as he often did when he was either in the presence of the Minister or Theodore Nott Sr.

However, Theo was currently engaged in a very, _very_ delicate manner and had no intentions of bailing out Draco. He swiftly switched his signet ring to the other hand, then ran his hand through his unruly hair as his response.

Fortunately for Theo, talking to a beautiful woman trumps escaping conversation with grumpy old men so… Ha.

Take that Draco.

"So…" He said, bringing his attention back to the more important matter at hand. "I take it you're from the muggle world, then? I think I would remember meeting someone from my world if they had a face half as perfect as yours,"

She blushed furiously, ducking her head in a poor attempt to hide it. How fucking adorable.

"Yes. My name is Daphne Greengrass, I'm one of the Queen's ladies." She confessed.

_Do try not to influence my ladies with your debauchery and charm too terribly while I'm otherwise occupied_.

His mischievous smile spread completely across his face as he located Hermione and Draco across the room. It appeared as though Miss Greengrass would serve as a double win for Theo against them.

"You don't say?" He replied, then took her proffered hand between his and bowed, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "My name is Theodore Nott, Jr. But, please, call me Theo. The rest of my unfortunate name only reminds me of my hideous father and well… let's just say daddy issues are only valuable if one finds himself in a bedchamber alone with a pretty lady."

Her cheeks reddened again at his blunt comment, but she painted a smile on her face nonetheless, and even ventured a retort.

"How arrogant you must be to assume you would find yourself in bed with me, Theo."

A choking laugh escaped his lips, quickly covered by a challenging smirk aimed in her direction.

"How arrogant you must be to assume I would be referring to you, Daphne."

This time, no color rose to her perfectly shaped cheeks. She was learning. Brilliant. He also noticed than unlike many of the other muggle women he'd met that night, she didn't request that he not call her by her _Christian_ name. Even more brilliant.

"So, do you have someone else in mind, then?" She asked, innocently looking around the crowded ballroom as if she didn't know she was the most beautiful woman in the room. "Do you have a _someone_, Theo?"

"No," he admitted, his eyes focused intently on her pale green ones. "Do you have a _someone_, Daphne?"

"Maybe," she teased, not breaking their eye contact. In turn, Theo tried not to be simultaneously aroused and heartbroken by her – though at this point it seemed as if both were equally inevitable.

"Oh?" He arched a blonde brow at her, then glanced lazily around the room not believing for one second that she would be standing there talking to him if she did have someone to keep her bed warm at night. "Who is the unlucky man?"

"I think you mean lucky," she noted.

He shrugged, "Or, perhaps, I didn't."

She shook her head, exhaling loudly. "He's not here." Then, she peered up at him from beneath her heavy lashes. "My _maybe_ man," she added.

"Right," Theo nodded skeptically. "Sure, he is."

Daphne, however, seemed to have little interest in discussing her imaginary man any further – no surprise for him there – and nudged him with one of her bare shoulders.

"Do you dance?"

He scoffed, "Only extremely well."

"Good," she smiled sweetly, then abruptly took the arm of a nearby woman and practically shoved her into Theo. "This is my friend, Miss Katie Bell, and she was so-hoping to find someone to share the next dance with."

Theo, who actually knew Katie from one or two previous interactions, tried not to let his mask falter as he took her hand and led her graciously to the dance floor. He twirled her dramatically for Daphne's apparent entertainment, then proceeded to ask her how she met Daphne this evening and what she thought of her new friend.

By the time Theo removed himself from the dance floor, Daphne was not where he had left her. Dejected, he scanned the crowd in search of her honey colored curls that, unlike Hermione's, fell in perfect loose waves, cascading down her shoulders.

When he finally saw her standing poised and ready for the next dance, he maneuvered himself through the sets of couples lined across from one another. Theo nudged the boy two down from the one Daphne stood across from and took his place.

"Oi, Nott! What do you think you're - "

"Shut up, Wood."

Before the boy could speak another word in protest, the music started up again and the couples met each other in the first count of the dance. The girl opposite him, Cho, was a skilled dancer and gave him a questionable, but pleasant, smile at his disruptive behavior. Bless her, though, she didn't seem to have any obvious complaint about his presence unlike Wood.

Theo was actually _quite_ the dancer himself; what he told Daphne earlier having been not only been true, but a huge understatement. If there was one thing his lanky limbs were good at it was almost exclusively ballroom dancing.

This particular dance, he knew, involved three main sections. The first two were relatively short, which is why he had placed himself exactly three men down from Daphne. So, by the time the third and final section came about, they would be coupled… and for the longest portion of the dance.

"You again," he said once they stood face to face.

"Me again," she breathed.

The moment her hand fell in his, electric shocks shot up his arm and spread throughout his entire body. Her eyes widened on his; both of them inhaling sharply but not letting go of one another.

It was, quite literally, a surreal experience.

She touched him and it's almost as if they knew that there would be history between them. His feet moved beneath him, just as hers did, and they continued to turn into one another to the rhythm of the music. One hand behind her neck, the other on her hip, dipping her low enough that her hair touched the enchanted floor, tickling the rings of one of the giant planets.

He could feel it; that one day he would have regrets about falling for her, but he just ignored it, cherishing the night they met. He pulled her back up, bringing her to him in breathtaking deliberateness, sliding both of his hands to hold her by the waist. Meanwhile, hers found their way up to his neck, one toying with the short hairs at its nape, sending shivers down his spine.

The intimacy of the dance was called for, however, the added tightening of his fingers on her waist and of hers in his hair were not. It was something he reveled in.

Theo and Daphne continued to dance, backwards into each other as the song came to an end, both desperate to control their heavy breathing and their undeniable feelings for each other.

"Come with me," Theo said as they made their way toward one of the floating trays of wine and champagne.

"I can't," she murmured, avoiding meeting his eyes.

"Why not?" He demanded. "There's no way… There's no way that it's not going there. That we aren't going there."

"Going where?" Daphne asked, taking a long sip of chardonnay.

He raked a hand through his hair again, struggling with how to put his thoughts, his feelings into words without sounding like a complete imbecile. _Don't muck this up, Theo, don't you dare,_ he thought.

"Don't tell me you didn't feel it too." He ended up saying.

"I - " She paused, chewing her lip. "I told you, I already have someone. I can't."

"Oh? Does he make you feel what I make you feel?" He stepped closer to her, knowing it would have the exact effect on her he wanted it to. He could see it now: her heart racing, breathing hitched, eyes dropping to the shape of his lips. "Tell me, Daphne, does he make you react the way you just did without even _touching_ you?"

"Theo," she begged, voice cracking. "Don't."

It took everything in him to back away, to turn and leave her standing there, mouth gaping, but he had to do it. He was afraid if he didn't, he would go on saying things that he couldn't take back… doing things that he couldn't take back. It was better that he walked away than to see how far he could push her.

It killed him, though.

Every second with her, he wanted another. But the minute he was no longer looking into her mesmerizing green eyes, he knew he had done the right thing. It seemed distance was the only thing that was going to keep the tension between them in check.

The cool night air ruffled his hair as he stood out on one of the balconies of the Manor, overlooking Narcissa's gardenia and peony garden in the back of the palace. Theo sighed. He wished there was a way to make time stop, to forget everything and everyone except for her. Her touch.

Who was he anymore? What was happening to him? What had she done?

_Fuck_.

. . .

_8 March 1456_

_11:46 pm_

The wizarding world wasn't half what Harry had expected it to be. From the few times Hermione had talked with him about it – before today it had been a sensitive topic that Pansy had warned (re: threatened) he stay far away from when around Hermione as apparently it caused violent mood swings – Harry got the impression that it was a beguiling world full of everything one thought to be make-believe.

Harry anticipated medieval culture, gothic architecture, and a sinister feeling in the very air. Aside from the gothic influence on their impressive stonework, the wizarding world was nothing like what he had envisioned.

From the moment he stepped over what had been the boundary separating their world from the one he knew, Harry felt as if the cobblestone streets had welcomed him, that the colors were far more vibrant and that the air crisper in his lungs.

It was clearly far more advanced than their world – the muggle one – in many ways, one of which was hospitality (not something he would have imagined seeing as Hermione's primary focus with her act had been about their medical and ecological advancements).

Harry, surprisingly becoming numb to the mind-boggling magic that had constantly surrounded him that evening, plucked a strange looking chocolate from the floating tray. He was so preoccupied with analyzing its strange wrapping that he didn't notice the chocolate, shaped like a small frog, leap out of his hand and onto a nearby guest.

"Oi, watch it!" A red-haired boy shouted, swatting at the frog and narrowly missing it. "Sorry, Charlie." He winced, backing away from the taller boy who looked very much to be related to him.

"Get your eyes checked, mate," another tall red head said, shaking his head as he came up to the boy.

"Yeah, or you definitely won't make the team this year," an identical looking boy said, appearing on his other side.

Harry was vaguely aware that all of these red-haired boys _must_ be related, brothers most likely, and was amused at their banter. The original boy, the one close to his age he reckoned, shoved the twins away and sauntered back to where Harry stood, giving him a lopsided grin.

"Shame that," the boy commented, returning to stand on his left.

"Do they always do that?" He asked breathlessly.

The boy, looking to be roughly his age, shrugged his broad shoulders. "Most of them do, yeah, they're trouble. Next time, try to be quicker about eating it."

Harry had not been talking about the magical, lively chocolate frog, but nodded regardless, taking the sound advice.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."

The ginger boy held out his hand, shaking it with Harry's. "The name's Ron. Ron Weasley."

"Harry," he replied. "Harry Potter."

"Ron!" A young ginger girl called out, huffing and flattening her rosy gown as she came up to them. "Ron, mum's asking for you. Something about you not wearing the right robes?"

"Bloody hell, I _told_ her I didn't want to wear those. They're _ancient_. There was no way I was going to walk around Malfoy Manor in them, especially not when there will be muggles to impress." He turned his attention briefly to Harry. "Can you imagine?"

Harry shrugged, "I wouldn't worry about impressing us too badly. It's really not that hard to," he eyed the spectacular sight of the ballroom as he said so.

The girl rolled her eyes, shocking Harry with her blunt facial expression. He was so used to being around muggle women that it was still strange to see how honest and unmasked the wizards and witches could be.

"Not everyone in the wizarding world lives like this," she said, then pinched Ron's arm without warning. "Mum. Now. Go."

"Fine, fine. Just don't – Oi! – What did I just – OW – Alright, bloody hell,"

Then, in a flurry, Ron was weaving his way through the crowd, leaving Harry alone with what could only have been his younger sister.

"I'm Ginny," she said, giving him a polite smile.

"Harry," he nodded. "You're Ron's sister?"

"Unfortunately," she replied, laughing and shaking her head. "I have six older brothers, all of which are a right pain in my side."

"I don't know," Harry said. "I suppose that can be kind of nice, sometimes, having siblings."

"You're an only child?"

He nodded.

In his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of Pansy, eyes narrowed in his direction and he loathed to ponder what was going through her mind as he stood engaged in conversation with a beautiful girl that wasn't her.

"Ginny," Harry asked innocently. "Do you care for a dance? I'm not very good, but I'm feeling a bit stiff and could use the exercise."

A small frown formed at the corners of her lips as her eyes shifted briefly to someone else across the ballroom, but conceded, taking his proffered hand and following him to the enchanted ballroom floor.

Not even one dance later, he noticed Pansy had joined them on the dance floor with a tall, dark-haired man that was dressed so finely and strangely that he must have been a wizard.

Two can play at that game, it seemed.

"Not to be rude," Ginny said, bringing his attention back to his partner as he twirled her around. "But I'm not interested in you, not like _that_ anyway. I only agreed to make someone else jealous."

Harry smirked, "None taken. If I'm being honest, I'm benefiting from this in a similar fashion."

"Well, that's good then."

"Excellent," he agreed.

"Who is she?" Ginny asked, her face revealing that her curiosity was genuine.

"Someone from my world. She's incurably stubborn and claims to have no wish to be with me, but…" He trailed off with a shrug. "How about you?"

"Oh, only some pathetic boy that I've been pining over the past year. He's never so much as looked at me. In fact, earlier, I think he mistook me for a coat hanger." She grimaced.

"Sorry to hear that,"

Ginny shrugged, "Happens," – pausing to glance obviously around the crowded ballroom – "So, which one is she?"

Harry angled her toward Pansy's line of sight in the next turn of the dance, then whispered in her ear to look at the raven-haired beauty smiling brilliantly at her partner.

Of course, Harry knew, Pansy was putting on a show. Her best manicured foot forward. She was dazzling everyone she talked to, dispelling charming smiles and enticing giggles to any who introduced themselves to her. It was not only to uphold a pristine image she crafted for herself, he understood, but also to make her parents proud of her (or try to, more likely).

"Ah," Ginny said, biting on her lower lip before turning back to Harry with an arched brow. "She's dancing with Lee Jordan, Duke of something or another, I can't remember, and close friends with my brothers. The twins, Fred and George."

Her tone was cautious, taunting him at the same time.

"Should I be concerned?"

Ginny's eyes, a beautiful shade of amber, traveled slowly down his torso before coming back up to search his face, a mischievous grin spreading across her own.

"No," she confessed.

Harry didn't fight the bright smile tugging at his lips, widening enough to show his pearly teeth and hopefully make Pansy's head turn in his direction.

"Good," Then, he leaned closer into her ear again, "I don't even need to see your boy to know that he's got everything to worry about with you in my arms."

She shook her head, chuckling as he bent her into a low dip. "His loss." When he pulled her slowly back up, taking her into his arms, she added, "Hers too."

Harry couldn't agree more.

"Friends?" He ventured.

She beamed, "Friends."

Later, Harry would excuse himself to the gardens, finding himself in desperate need of fresh air and familiarity after spending hours surrounded by enchanting and extraordinary magic. The warm winds tussled his consistently unkempt hair, and the sweet scent of gardenias and peonies washed over his senses, bringing him to a calm bliss.

Which lasted for approximately thirty seconds before the storm that was Lady Pansy Parkinson blew through.

"Henry," she growled.

"Pansy,"

"What the hell was that?" She demanded, following him through the winding paths of the Manor's garden.

"Was what?" He asked, playing at naivety in the hope that she would actually articulate what she was apparently so mad at and not make him have to guess.

"That," spat Pansy. "In there. You and that ginger-haired girl."

"Dancing?"

Her dark eyes narrowed, pulling him to a stop and shoving him into one of the taller hedges. "Don't play dumb with me, Henry, or so help me - "

"Would you relax, Pans? It was just dancing. You refused to dance with me, so I asked someone else. It's not a _crime_, and besides, not that it should matter, but we're just friends."

"Oh, is that so?" She seethed. "It didn't look like it to me."

Harry snapped, throwing his hands up in the air. "I don't know what you want from me, Pansy! You're giving me _whiplash_," he panted.

His eyes fell to her chest, rising and falling as quickly as his, then back up to her face, reaching out to caress the side of her cheek. She backed away instantly, her eyes reverting to her violet skirts, flattening them down despite there not being a single wrinkle.

The flare of anger disappeared momentarily.

"Don't look away."

"I can't," she murmured, almost defeated. "You know I can't."

"Then, stay." Harry begged, trying once again to touch her. "Stay with me."

"No."

Like before, a single comment from her was all it took for Harry's temper to roar back to life. He thrust a fist out at the hedge behind him, snapping several branches in the process. He raked a hand through his hair, then turned back to her, his emerald eyes blazing with a devastating fury only she could bring out of him.

"Some days you're the only thing I know, the only thing that's burning and keeps me warm when the nights grow cold. Then, other days you're a stranger in my bed, and I don't know if you would rather love me or want me dead."

A look of disapproval washed over her face, her brows pinching together, and her lips twisting into an infuriatingly adorable frown but not saying a word.

"You push me away!" He shouted, "Then, you beg me to stay. What am I supposed to make of that? What do you want from me?"

"I don't know!"

Her small fists clenched and unclenched at her side, and Harry could see with utter satisfaction that he was finally breaking through the aristocratic mask she'd worn all evening.

"I DON'T KNOW,"

Pansy was always a good liar, and every time she did it, he got butterflies. It was one of the most beguiling facts about his attraction to her. How mean she'd treat him, only to turn around and whisper sweet nothing's in his ear.

Her dark eyes, focused intently on his, suddenly glazed over as if she was looking right through him. Much like they'd done all night when she refused to acknowledge him in any capacity.

"This war… this _thing_ between us," Harry finally said. "I don't know if I'm going to make it out alive with the way you keep playing. You fight so dirty, but then you love so sweet."

"Shut up,"

"You talk so pretty, putting on a show for everyone else, but with me you bare your teeth."

"Stop talking," she growled.

"You're like my own personal hell." Harry said, shaking his head as a maniacal laugh escaped his chapped lips. "It's as if I made some deal with the devil. You won't let me have you, but no one else's touch unravels me the way yours does. It's unbecoming, really, how I would do practically _anything_ for you to put your hands on me."

There was a devilish glint in her eyes as she accurately read into his plead. Her palms pushed against him again, backing him into a post of a gazebo, then her arms wrapped around his neck, tugging his lips roughly to hers.

He immediately wrapped his arms around her thin waist, pulling her body against his so that there was no space between them, sighing into her mouth in content. Harry had been wrong before, in assuming the quiet of the garden beneath the starry sky had been bliss. It was this. It was him and her, entangled in each other's arms, desperate to put lips to skin.

Harry lifted her up, securing her legs around his hips, then deposited her on the low fence of the gazebo. One hand gripped tightly to her thigh, keeping her locked into place and making sure she wouldn't lose balance as she tucked her hands beneath his chemise and coat, peeling both from his hot skin.

She made quick work of his trousers too, letting them fall around his ankles as he tried not to tear at the expensive fabrics of her skirts (not that he particularly cared about how much they had cost – and it was likely she didn't entirely give a damn either – but because he knew if he damaged her appearance beyond repair that she would bring him hell upon their reentry into the ballroom).

His fingers circled around her, teasing her until a soft moan escaped her lips, then inserted one, then two inside her. The sharp exhale and subsequent biting of his earlobe had him almost panting against her neck. He trailed kisses along it, careful not to pull too harshly at her fine, fragile skin.

When his fingers slipped easily in and out of her opening, his shifted them up to her clit and then slid himself inside of her in one slow, tantalizing maneuver.

Sex with her was always an adventure. The warm feeling of being inside her never got old, either.

They both momentarily relished in the sensation of him filling her, catching their breath and sharing a sweet kiss. Then, she wriggled her hips, bringing them to the edge of the top of the fence she was perched on and started moving them against his. He took the signal and ran with it, pumping in and out of her furiously.

Sweat pooled on both of them as they built, the tension in their nerves growing, daring to break open in a blinding elation at any given moment. Then it did, both of their legs quivering as the wave rushed through them at miraculously the same time.

As Harry tried to catch his breath, still finding it ragged against her bare chest, he couldn't help but wonder how they were not meant for each other with the chemistry between them.

"My heart is in my hand, for you," he whispered against her ear, nipping at the skin just below her jaw, "Still beating."

"I told you, Harry, this isn't - "

"I know," he lamented, backing away from her to find his clothes.

Pansy pulled him back to her, wrapping her arms around his back and running her fingers up and down his spine, tucking his head in her neck.

"Don't let go,"

"Never," he promised.

. . .

**A/N - **Back to our regular schedule now, until next saturday loves xx


	10. The Flight

. . .

_**Chapter 10 – The Flight**_

. . .

_10 April 1456_

_8:08 am_

_You fucked me up._

Harry's words had stung more than Pansy wanted to admit.

He'd delivered them with a sullen face and gentlemen-like manners, more than she usually witnessed from his roguish nature, but they still cut into her with terrifying precision. She'd broken things off with him and he actually stayed away. For good this time, apparently.

She'd hadn't believed him. She hadn't wanted to. Why would she? He always came back. He _used_ to always come back. This time, Harry had kept his word and stayed away from her. Every room Pansy walked into, she scanned it for tiny, wilted weeds and glowing emerald eyes.

Much to her dismay, neither were ever there.

True it had been her decision to end things, but she hadn't actually wanted to. Harry would never know, of course, how much she really did care for him. Somewhere amidst their secret affair, Pansy had reluctantly developed feelings for him; the kind that didn't go away easily, no matter how hard she tried.

At Harry's insistence on staying away from her, Pansy was forced to return to the boring normality of her duties as one of Hermione's ladies. It was a role she'd often set aside in Harry's presence, something that was inexplicably wrong, but luckily Hermione had been so enraptured in her own inner turmoil over Draco to notice.

Most days involved Pansy receiving notes and whispers about the happenings within the walls of Hogwarts. Not even one toe could step out of line without her knowing. Shamelessly, Pansy had also used this particular skill set to keep tabs on Harry.

It was how she knew that he hadn't moved on from her… yet. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Okay, that was a lie. She knew _exactly_ how she felt about that, but it wasn't as if there was anything to be done about it so why fantasize about what could never be, right?

_I have a piece of you with me, now, and yet wherever I go, I'm still alone._

If he had expected her to run to him after so much time apart, he would be sorely disappointed. Pansy had been raised differently and chasing after a man was not part of that strict upbringing. She had been brought up to believe that a woman's place was behind her husband. She belonged to a man, not herself. Her mother was nothing without her father. Neither was Pansy.

Should the Viscount of Knockturn die, then Pansy and her mother would become little more than damaged objects for sale; her inheritance would be given to a nearby male relative, or to the state, or to her betrothed should she have one by then if she was still unlucky enough not to be fully married. That was assuming, of course, that Pansy was able to find a way to fake her virginity for her future in-laws in order to prove herself worthy of purchase.

Spending so much time around Hermione caused Pansy to often forget her place in the world, to forget that being a woman was not a good thing (it was practically a crime, really). As Queen, Hermione was obviously held under higher scrutiny than a king would be, but she still had infinitely more freedom than Pansy, and especially Daphne, ever would.

For starters, Hermione had been granted the right to her own body, her own person. She didn't have to depend on marriage – on the notion of aligning oneself with a man – to be of value or even remotely autonomous. Pansy would never be granted that freedom. Her parents would never allow her to marry Harry, duke or not, because of his roguish behavior and less-than-kingly fortune (her future husband would, of course, have to be at least wealthier than Pansy if not both wealthier _and_ more titled).

If she had any choice in the matter, she would marry Harry tomorrow.

But she didn't, did she?

_Damn it, I wish I never met you._

She wished she never met him, either. Perhaps then she could live a normal, miserable life; the one that had been intended for her since the day they announced _It's a girl_.

Instead, there she was, daydreaming about his eyes when she should be paying attention to what her friends were saying.

"Pans?" Hermione said, timely interrupting her internal reverie. "You ok? You seem to be a bit out of it lately,"

"Since the ball at Malfoy Manor," Daphne chimed in.

Both of them looked at her expectantly, probably waiting for her to admit she was, in fact, _not ok, not in the slightest_, but her upbringing would deeply frown upon saying such a thing.

"I am exceptionally well, Hermione." She reprimanded, giving her frizzy-haired friend an admonishing glare. "If I have seemed at all _out of it_ as you so politely phrased it, it is because I cannot understand why there are red roses in the centerpiece of our breakfast table."

Hermione shared a wary glance with Daphne before regarding the bright flowers that stood out among the white linens like a sore thumb.

"They're a gift from Fudge," she sniffed.

"They're hideous," Pansy added.

"I think they're - "

"Don't," Pansy warned, arching a dark brow at Daphne. "Don't say lovely. You don't think actually think they're lovely, and if you do, then you definitely need to go see Madam Pomfrey because you must be feverish. It's the only logical explanation for lack of your generally artful taste."

Daphne stared at her, stunned. "Did you just… Did you just compliment me?"

"Only after she reprimanded you," Hermione commented, then averted Pansy's narrowed gaze.

"Pass the biscuits, Daph," she said, ignoring both of them.

Daphne handed her the chocolate-covered biscuits and Pansy basked in the small pleasure of enjoying one before having to hide it from her line of sight, lest her slender figure wanted to pay the price. Heaven-forbid rumours of her belly showing start spreading around Hogwarts.

_That_ would certainly not be something she wanted to have to endure, especially since she knew very well that not only would her mother collapse from disgrace, but her father would certainly demand Father Flitwick do an examination alongside Madam Pomfrey to prove such rumours false (which even if Pansy were not pregnant, she would still fail such an exam on account of actually having had sex).

"Did you see that there's to be another wizarding wedding next month?" Hermione said cheerfully.

"Hermione, only you know things of that nature. It's not like either of us have a magical boyfriend that sends us messages by owl," Daphne scoffed.

"I knew that," Pansy teased, lifting her scalding teacup to her mouth. It burned, but she refrained from reacting and painfully took another sip. "Lord Jordan and Lady Johnson, yes?"

"Y – Yes." Hermione admitted, stuttering for an instant before shaking the bad habit. "How did _you_ know, Pans?"

"It would be wise to assume I know everything," she shrugged.

"We both know you have your little _spies_," Daphne said. "But that doesn't explain how you know what's going on in the House of Gryffindor. I hardly believe Millie runs errands for you all the way over there."

"Don't be foolish. Millie would never run during her errands, it's very unladylike. She knows better than to represent me so terribly."

Hermione pursed her lips.

"I wish I had enough time to further interrogate you and your mysterious ways, but I have to go. I have another secret council meeting regarding the Ministry's demands of our kingdom."

Pansy hid a smile in her napkin as she dabbed the corners of her tinted lips. "There would never be enough time for such a tireless effort, Hermione. But never mind that, don't forget about our meeting with Minerva tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh," Hermione gasped. "I told Draco I would meet Theo in Slytherin then."

Pansy narrowed her eyes.

"Daph," Hermione tried, her tone light and pleading. "You're not busy, are you?"

Daphne opened her mouth, closed it, grimaced, then opened it again. "No. I can go for you," she lamented.

"Excellent!"

"Go," Pansy reminded Hermione, nodding to Dean who appeared from the corner of the room to escort Hermione as her near-guard. She shook her head minutely as Seamus followed behind them as Hermione's far-guard.

Then, she cut her gaze to Daphne with a lifted brow, quizzical.

"You don't think Hermione 'forgot', do you?" Daphne asked.

Pansy raised her teacup to her lips silently.

"Didn't think so," Daphne sighed.

"Hermione is entirely _too_ fond of playing cupid," Pansy remarked, then noted the blush rise on Daphne's fair cheeks although she tried to hide it by adjusting the jewels in her blonde curls. "Not that you aren't indulging her,"

"I - " She shifted, toying with the lace on her gown. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means," Pansy replied drily.

That evening Pansy sat in her porcelain tub, Millie diligently scrubbing her back, and scolded herself for thinking sinfully of Harry, of how it felt to have his hands on her, washing her and plaiting her hair with his unexpectedly deft fingers. If there was anything involving excellent fine motor movement, Harry was good at it. Annoyingly so.

Millie wrapped her in a dry linen, warm from the coals, and then dressed her in her night shift before slipping quietly out of her bedchambers.

As soon as the door shut behind her, the soft sound of it clasping ringing in Pansy's attentive ears, she slid out from under her duvet and tip-toed over to her writing desk. She lit a candle figurine, setting it at the top of the dark wood, then pulled out a blank piece of parchment and her writing set.

The past few months, when Pansy couldn't sleep – or more accurately, could not get Harry off of her mind – she wrote down the thoughts buzzing unwilfully through her head. She typically addressed the letter to her parents, though she had no real intention of ever sending them. It was more for the sake of getting her feelings in line, keeping her anxious thoughts from erupting at an unsettling time (_especially_ after witnessing Hermione's S.P.E.W. and the damage unchecked emotions had done her).

She had just finished that evening's letter when a rhythmic knock sounded at her door. Pansy shoved the parchment and ink into the drawer of her writing desk, then scurried to the other side of the room with the candelabra in her hand.

Squinting through a hole she'd created in the wall to the right of her door – cleverly looking through the eye of one of the paintings in the hallway outside – she saw the second most identifiable head of unruly hair (the first belonging to Hermione).

Pansy took a deep breath, schooling her face into passivity, then unlocked the door and swung it open. Harry stood on the other side of the threshold, looking a bit absurd; his chemise was half-tucked into trousers that appeared to be properly scuffed, and his boots weren't even laced neatly, some loops missing altogether. Still, her heart fluttered something murderous in her chest, betraying her promise to remain unaffected by him since their separation.

"Harry," she greeted politely, ever the well-bred noble. "Is there any particular reason you're standing outside my bedchambers in the middle of the night?"

He stared at her; his deep green eyes unblinking.

"Harry?"

The repetition of his name seemed to bring him back to reality, and he peered down at her – she tried not to fidget in her less-than-appropriate state of appearance – with such a look of longing, of guilt, that it took everything in her not to take him in her arms.

"Pansy," he exhaled.

When he tried to step closer, she held up a finger.

"Don't," she warned.

"Pans - "

"No."

He raked a hand through his hair, biting his lip in the process and causing her to shut her thighs together firmly.

"Let me in, please,"

"No," she said again, sounding remarkably steadier than she felt. "You have to go, Harry."

"Damn it, Pansy, I tried. I can't forget you."

She swallowed with difficulty, then prayed that he didn't notice.

"You have to."

Mustering up any residual strength she had, Pansy did the most difficult thing she ever had to do in her whole life. She shut the door in his beautiful face, causing any other words on his lips to cease with a deafening thud.

She waited until the sound of his footsteps signaled him receding, then slid down the wooden frame of the door, sinking to the floor in a heap of hacking sobs.

. . .

_11 April 1456_

_4:10 pm_

It had been just over a month since Daphne had last seen Theo, but it felt like it had been a lifetime. In fact, it didn't feel like she was currently with him despite walking quietly beside him through the cobblestone streets of Slytherin.

He had changed _so_ much it was unbelievable, and it was unquestionably because of her.

It wasn't as if Daphne was so full of herself as to presume that he was affected by her so drastically. Perhaps, she was a bit narcissistic, but Theo had all but admitted she was the reason he was suddenly so cold.

When she had first seen him that afternoon he had been leaning languidly against a post, talking to another wizard who appeared to be a few years older and much more built, stockier even. That was easy enough to accomplish by any man who stood next to Theo since he was undoubtedly the tallest man in any given room, and his naturally slender frame did little to help that particular fact.

Theo had been talking animatedly with the other boy, his shoulders relaxed and his hands gesturing wildly around his face. She could see it in his face, in the brilliant smile showing his pearly white teeth, that he was in his element. He was comfortable, charming, and above-all, luxuriating in the fact that the other wizard was exasperated as equally as he was enraptured by whatever Theo was telling him.

Daphne wanted to know what it was, wanted to be on the receiving end of his conversation, and felt instantly envious of any other woman who had the gift of being in such a position. It was not difficult for her to imagine how many women must fall at his feet when he smiled at them like _that_. It was as if the sun itself had learned to shine from Theo Nott.

So, when she finally strode up to them and his entire image transformed into something darker, more aloof, Daphne felt alarmingly hurt.

_Boys_, she thought incredulously.

The next few hours, he had behaved properly and nobly; frustratingly so. It drove her insane with jealousy and agony. What had she done that was so offensive to him that he felt it necessary to change his entire personality in her presence?

His muscles were tensed, poised as if he was about to step into battle. His hands in tight fists, curled at his sides and only loosening to open doors to shops for her, or to suggest a certain fabric, trailing it between his fingers. His eyes, normally a bright, alluring shade of blue, were dark and narrowed, reminding her of birds of prey. His mouth was in a thin line, hardly moving when he spoke and never twisting upward into anything even remotely closely resembling a smile.

_I wish you would come back to me_, she thought hopelessly.

"What about this one?" She asked, holding up a deep garnet sample.

Theo shook his head, "You said she would be wearing a silver and blue diadem?"

Yes, she had said that.

Her state crown would be red, that was a given, but her own crown – the one she would wear for everyday use – was silver and blue, not only dramatically changing her previous color scheme of golds and reds, but also proving Theo correct in his skepticism.

Daphne sighed. What had gotten into her? Normally she was so attuned to fashion and specifically styling Hermione for important balls, galas, and the like. She blamed the moody blue-eyed boy looming behind her.

_Boys!_

"Yes, you're right. It does have blue stones in it," she put the fabric down and continued wading through the small store. "You know your magical fabrics and charm… things… that bring them to life. What do you think?"

He perused through the aisles, letting his fingers run along the samples as he did, then stopped abruptly and motioned for her to join him. Shocked by his sudden gesture to allow her into his space, she moved through the aisles quickly, lifting her own skirts to fit through the tight spacing.

"You have something?" She breathed.

"Yes, I think so." Theo admitted, lifting the pale blue color for her inspection. "Now, imagine this, but…"

He trailed off, explaining his vision in detail to her and Daphne had to admit she could see it coming to life the more he went on. If they could truly pull this off, Hermione would look _iconic_ in her coronation gown.

She smiled up at him tentatively and as he pulled his focus from the fabric between his fingers to her, looking up at him, she caught a glimpse of the same Theo that fought so hard for her attention among the hundreds of others in the ballroom.

He stopped, mid-sentence, and she could see the edge of his mouth twisting up in a cheeky grin as he said, "What?"

She wanted to say, _I miss you Theo. I miss you, pushing me close to the edge._

Instead, she said, "Nothing."

He forced his face back into passivity, casting a blank expression across it as he directed himself toward the owner of the little shop and began expressing explicit instructions for the order.

Daphne followed suit, finding herself more at ease in his presence now that she knew the real Theo was still there. Not the boisterous one who charmed the stockings off of everyone he talked to and not the standoffish one who observed everything with calculating eyes, but her own Theo. A version of himself that he saved for when he was around her and only her.

He set fire to her world.

He set fire to _her_.

As much as she had wanted to deny it the night they met, she knew the moment she touched him – perhaps even before that, when their eyes first met as she crossed the boundary – that one day he would be _hers_.

Fate was cruel in that way, making her wish she knew what she had when she left. If she had known how empty she would feel after leaving him, she would never have pushed him away so stubbornly the entire night.

Yes, there was Cedric.

But there would always be a Cedric, wouldn't there? How do two people really come together as opportune times in each other's lives? Sure, there was Hermione and Draco who seem to be coming together despite every obstacle thrown at them but that could all be chopped up to bloody divine right.

Daphne Greengrass did not have that luxury. Nor did she have the luxury of a good title to fall back on should her reputation become irreparably damaged because she decided to break it off with Cedric after such a long and methodical courtship.

_But fucking hell_, Daphne mused internally (Pansy could eat it, these were her thoughts and she could curse if it so pleased her), _she was a romantic and would it be _so_ terrible to wish for something more heartfelt than 'long and methodical' to describe her love life?_

Silently, she thought back on Hermione's constant distress at Lord Neville Longbottom making a _decent_ king consort with a sense of empathy.

Plus, Theo _was_ nobility. He was not only a highly influential and important duke as well as their equivalent of Hand of the King, but also an extremely wealthy man in his own right (this would be, of course, not including the inheritance he stood to gain from Nott Sr.).

Daphne could certainly do worse, but she already knew the argument Pansy and her parents would have if she even dared to bring him up as a potential husband. He was not from their world. The Parkinson's and the Greengrass' were very close and both strongly opposed any intermingling between their kingdom and the wizarding one. Old families with old mentalities, it would seem.

This left Pansy and Daphne in a very precarious situation with their best friend and Queen who had recently met with her privy council to seek an amendment and reintroduction of her Amalgam Act.

That, however, was a problem that spent very little time at the forefront of her mind as opposed to the inexplicable problem that was Theo Nott.

He led her out of the store, then noting the falling sun, offered to escort her back to Hogwarts.

"It's no trouble, really." He assured her without so much as a hint of a smile. "I enjoy the walk. Unless, that is, you would rather I call a carriage for you?"

"No, that's alright. I could use the fresh air,"

He nodded, then gestured for her to lead the way down the newly paved – though knowing it was created in less than a fortnight and by magical beings she doubted it was _actually_ paved – cobblestone road that led straight from Slytherin to the edge of the castle.

"Lovely evening," she commented.

"Yes. It is."

"It's finally starting to stay warm."

He kept his eyes straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back but other than the tension in his neck and shoulders, Daphne could see he was more comfortable around her for the first time that day.

"Spring is a wonderful time of the year."

She didn't say anything else, giving up the attempt at small talk with him completely. He didn't appear to want to change that either, so they walked quietly for several long minutes. Incapable of withstanding the awkward silence any longer, Daphne spoke up.

She cleared her throat softly, "How have you been, Theo?"

He didn't look at her.

"Why do you care how I've been?"

"I - " She stuttered. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

When he did look at her finally, his icy blue eyes bore into hers with such an intensity that she stopped walking, nearly colliding with someone walking the other direction, and he pulled her roughly to the side of the street.

"Watch where you're going, will you?" He snapped.

She grimaced, feeling suddenly very hurt and defensive.

"Hey! I only asked how you were doing Theo, there's no need to be so mean about it!"

His lips pressed into a thin line, and his hand dropped from its place on her elbow.

"You have a someone, don't you Daphne? Why don't you ask _him_ how he's doing and leave me alone?"

She gaped, "He has nothing to do with this,"

"I beg to differ," Theo retorted. "I think he has everything to do with this. If it wasn't for your so-called _someone_, then you wouldn't be so quick to dismiss your feelings for me."

Daphne didn't even know where to begin with that, so instead, she turned the accusations back his way.

"Is this your way of telling me you still think there's some inexplicable pull from destiny between us?" She hissed, feeling her manners slipping away.

"I don't have to explain myself to you,"

"You do, too if you're going to go around treating me like some child you've been forced to mind all day. Skulking around, barely looking at me, and then when you do it's like ice."

He turned and continued walking down the street toward Hogwarts, the castle coming into view between the towering trees around them. She hurried to catch up to him, her short legs no match for his lengthy stride.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! Don't ignore me,"

"It's impossible to ignore you," she caught him grumbling under his breath.

"_Theo!"_

He spun around so quickly Daphne nearly lost her balance knocking into him.

"What do you want from me Daphne Greengrass?"

_I want you to ruin my life_, she wanted to say, feeling the words on the tip of her tongue.

"I don't know," she replied lamely.

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, let his eyes flicker up to the castle, glowing atop the hill not far away, and then back to her.

"Well, let me know when you do." He said tautly. "I trust you can find your way from here without my assistance?"

Daphne took in the stiffness of his posture, the tension building in all of his lean musculature; he was like a cat, ready to pounce and bound away at a second's notice. Ready to get away from her, she realized with a sinking feeling.

"Theo," she breathed softly, quietly. Coaxing him back to her. Pleading with her eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know what it does to me."

"Just… Can't we be friends at least?"

"Friends?"

She nodded dumbly.

"It's bad enough that we get along so well. I can't be around you and… and be just friends. I'm not big enough for that, not strong enough."

_Then don't be_, she wanted to scream.

"I - "

He cut her off, shaking his head and backing away to a safe distance where the heat of their skin wasn't tempting enough to burn them both beyond repair.

"Just…" He sounded defeated and it broke her heart. "Just say goodnight and go, Daphne."

Then, he turned and walked briskly back toward Slytherin without looking back. The emptiness in her stomach returned the moment his blue eyes and golden hair was out of eyesight; her lungs expanded to fill the void he left but she never felt more desperate for air.

. . .

_30 April 1456_

_2:29 pm_

Hermione welcomed the warm, humid air with a beaming smile; her skin, exposed from constantly wearing lighter, short-sleeved gowns, gleamed a lovely caramel in the late spring sun. It was nearly summer, her favorite time of the year, and by the way this year had gone already she needed the upcoming summer to be one of the best.

Though, it was really not in her hands anymore. She'd done everything she could to ensure that her kingdom would prosper, including amending her beloved act.

She's spent all week, negotiating with her secret council about how to amend it. They finally agreed on the details that morning – though it had taken half of the afternoon as well apparently which made her have to push back her weekly horse ride with Harry, and now Daphne and Cedric as well – and her Hand submitted it to the larger, formal Council on her behalf just minutes ago.

"Ready?" Harry asked, handing Hermione her reigns.

"Absolutely,"

The fresh air and long ride would be tremendously good for her; if nothing else, it would at least provide a welcome distraction from her anxious thoughts.

Hermione took hold of her reigns, then climbed up onto the saddle with Harry's help and settled her legs on either side of her favorite mare. She didn't ride side saddle unless it was absolutely necessary according to decorum – like when she had to salute the Queen's Army in a formal inspection of the soldiers last month – and adjusted her skirts so that they fell evenly on either side of her horse. Her breeches underneath (something Minerva would consider a state secret seeing as it was unladylike in the deepest sense as well as entirely against royal protocol for women; but then again, so was riding normally).

"Daph?"

Hermione craned her neck to see her friend grinning behind her, her hair in a perfect, silky chignon. Hermione knew (enviously so) that not even a single golden strand would come loose during their ride.

"I'm here," she smiled sweetly.

"Your Majesty," Cedric greeted, coming up on Daphne's left atop the tallest stallion among their group.

Hermione pursed her lips, "I told you, you don't have to call me that when we aren't around stuffy nobles."

"Right," he chuckled. "Sorry, Hermione."

"My _god_," she laughed through a groan. "Don't apologize!"

When he opened his mouth again, Daphne swatted him playfully and then laughed when he abruptly shut his mouth and pretended to lock it and throw the key away.

"Where to, today?" Harry asked her.

Hermione considered this, thinking back to their usual paths and decided to go with one of the longest ones. She needed to escape the walls of the castle – and her responsibilities – for as long as she possibly could.

"Arthur's Seat?"

He let out a low whistle, then gave her a cheeky grin.

"I'll be in trouble if I don't get you home before dark," Harry noted. "Dean will _murder_ me."

"Eh, I doubt that. I'm sure there's some benevolent monarch lying around that can step in to rescue you if need be,"

He beamed, and his green eyes sparkled at her. She found herself grinning back as the familiarity and comfortableness of having Harry with her settled into her skin.

"I guess you have a point there," he replied.

"Well, what are we waiting for, then?" Daphne chimed in. She pulled at her reigns forcefully, driving her pinto ahead of the group then turning her skillfully back to face them with a brilliant smile splayed across her flushed face. "Let's go!"

"Race you there!" Hermione called out, sending her boy into a gallop.

"Oh, no you _don't_," Harry said.

He came up next to her quickly, leaning forward so low it reminded her of those young stable boys who raced their horses for the entertainment of rich nobles. He shot her a mischievous grin before taking off in a series of whoops and shouts.

Daphne circled back to stop just ahead of Cedric, teasing him by crossing in front of him in a zig-zag fashion before taking off again. Harry's and Cedric's mares were no match for Daphne's speedy girl – one she loved so much she had her family send for her from her home – aptly named Lightning because all you saw before she left you in the dust was a flash of Daphne's golden hair.

Hermione felt her cheeks sting with the wind tussling her hair and causing the frizzy curls to slap against her face repeatedly as she galloped through the green hills, farther and farther away from the castle. Every meter away she felt more and more free.

Tired of letting the boys have all the fun chasing Daphne, Hermione kicked her mare – an all-white beauty with the stamina of ten horses easily – into top gear, letting out a boisterous laugh as passed Harry and Cedric.

She waved to them briefly before tugging on her reigns in pursuit of Daphne.

"Come on, Hugo," she cheered, brushing his pale hair affectionately.

Hours later, Hermione was grateful to disembark from her horse and stand on flat ground. Her behind was so sore and they still had to ride _back_ to Hogwarts. She tied Hugo off to a nearby tree, letting him interact with the other horses as well as eat and drink, refueling.

She stretched her arms up toward the sky, thankful for the longer days. If it had been winter, the sun would have long set by then, but it was practically summer, and Hermione couldn't be happier for it.

Except, perhaps, for two events.

One of which, Daphne immediately picked up on noting the anxiety that must have shown on her face as she sat down in the lush grass with her friend.

"Nervous about your coronation?" Daphne asked. "I can't believe it's only a week away."

"It's about time," Hermione mumbled, then spoke up. "No, I'm actually not too concerned about that. I felt like I've been preparing for that day my whole life, not just in the rehearsals and whatnot the past few months."

"That's true." Daphne toyed with a dandelion sprouting from the ground, letting it blow naked in the wind at the top of the mountain they'd rode up. "Still, it's crazy that the day is finally here. I mean we were… what six when we met? I distinctly remember the day my parents told me I'd be one of the future queen's ladies."

"I can't believe you've been a fixture in my life for so long. Pansy, too."

"Oh, my god, yes! Do you remember the day she showed up?"

Hermione burst out laughing, then recoiled with a playful shudder. "How could I forget? I mean, she was _bossier _and more opinionated back then, if that is even possible." She paused. "What was it she said to you when Minerva introduced us all?"

Daphne immediately began mimicking Pansy's most haughty tone, "_Miss Greengrass, you understand that is in the best interest of the future queen that I am here and while it may have everything to do with your ineptitude, I don't want you to pout about it. Emotions are - "_

" – _best expressed to one's confessor not across one's face._" Hermione finished, joining in the impression.

Both of them fell into fits of laughter, choking on sobs and hastily wiping away tears between gasping for air.

"I can't _believe_ she said that!" Hermione said.

"Oh, I can." Daphne hiccupped.

"Well, yes – It's Pansy. But she was _six years old_. What child even talks like that?"

Daphne shook her head, biting her lip to prevent another bout of laughter. "She's something else."

"You both are," Hermione noted, suddenly becoming sentimental. "I mean, I'm so incredibly lucky to have you both in my life. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You would have probably picked a plain, boring crown," Daphne commented with a pointed look meant to be disapproving.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's not like I didn't know that's _exactly_ why Minerva brought Pansy for the selection process," she rolled her eyes. "Or why Minerva put you in charge of designing my coronation gown."

"Oh, I am _so_ excited for you to see it! You're going to look amazing, Hermione. Theo's eye is remarkable really, and his vision for the gown? I definitely couldn't have designed it without his help." Daphne gushed.

Hermione noticed the blush that rose to her cheeks as she talked about Theo and felt something flutter in her chest. She had so hoped something would spark between the two of them, that perhaps Daphne would find the love she was looking for in him.

"How is Theo?" She asked non-too-subtly.

Daphne's face instantly fell.

"I don't know," she toyed with the grass, plucking handfuls out of the dirt at a time. "I haven't seen him. Haven't heard from him."

"Well, why not?"

"Don't look at me like that, Hermione," she sighed.

"Like what?" Hermione responded, trying to sound innocent despite knowing she was decidedly _not_.

"Like how you look at Pansy when you ask her about Harry."

"But - "

"No. There is no _me and Theo_," she supplied stiffly.

"You know I don't believe that, Daph" Hermione crossed her arms. "Listen, you and I both know there's _something_ going on between Pansy and Harry," – who was currently attempting to climb the rubble of what used to be a tower with Cedric – "and if you are comparing you and Theo to them, then - "

"Then, nothing. Let it go,"

Hermione wanted to continue arguing that Daphne was being especially unreasonable. Instead, she caught sight of Harry waving his arms emphatically, trying to get the girls attention and then pointing at something above their heads when he successfully did.

She turned behind her, craning her neck up to the sky to see none other than Draco's pale blond head atop a _flying broom_.

"What the - "

He landed without difficulty, stepping off the broom just before it touched the ground, and strode toward them with a knowing smirk. Hermione felt her stomach twist into knots as she stood and let him kiss her hand politely, winking at her from his slight bow.

"Hermione,"

"Draco," she gasped. "What are you doing here? Why were you _flying_ on a _broom_?"

"I was hoping you would join me for a ride actually," he said.

Her gaze flickered to the four horses, "I don't mind sharing Hugo – Unless, Daph, you and Cedric - "

"Oh, no." Draco cut in. "I meant join me for a ride _on my broom_."

She sputtered unintelligently, then finally choked out, "What?"

"Is that even _safe_?" Daphne implored.

"Perfectly," he assured her. Then, he nodded and greeted Harry and Cedric with pleasantries as they joined the group. "So, what do you say?"

Hermione bit her lip.

Then, she shot a pleading glance askance to Daphne, "Can you make a cup of tea for me?"

"You're joking," she breathed.

Hermione shook her head.

"What? Tea? Now?" Harry muttered, looking expectantly between them. Cedric shrugged and shook his head, holding his hands up in silent defeat.

"Daph," Hermione begged, dragging out her best friend's name.

"Hermione," Daphne groaned, also dragging out the name. "You expect me to… make tea for you… with Minerva and Dean ready to murder me if I do?"

From a confused Harry, "Why would they murder you?"

From a stubborn Hermione, "Yes."

Daphne gritted her teeth, but just as Hermione anticipated, she ultimately gave in.

"Fine, fine! How many cubes of sugar do you want?"

"Two…" Hermione's gaze flickered across to Draco, his brow arched artfully. "Maybe three?"

Harry coughed drily, "That's quite a lot of sugar, Hermione, my goodness. Do you plan on living a particularly long reign? Because - "

"No more than three," Daphne warned.

"Deal!" Hermione grinned beatifically. "Thank you, Daph! You're the best!"

"Yes, yes. Go on," she pulled away from Hermione's tight hug to wave her away.

Hermione took Draco's arm and led him away from the others, "Let's go."

"Where are they going?" Harry said, panicked. "Wait – Daph – Where is she going? – Dean is going to be _furious_ – I have to – she has to – What do you _mean_ she's not coming with us?"

Draco instructed her on how to sit, then settled himself behind her, his hands gripping onto the thin bar of wood on either end of hers, her knuckles white.

"Are you sure this is safe?" She stammered.

"Do you trust me?"

"I – Yes – But, Draco - "

"Hold on, tight," he murmured in her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

. . .

_30 April 1456_

_7:16 pm_

The broom began to levitate, slowly rising from the safety and security of the ground; her feet dangled precariously in the air, and she couldn't help but feel extremely uneasy the higher they got.

He was being cautious, taking his time getting them dangerously high in the air, and although she knew it was for her benefit that he did this, it didn't make the sickly knot in her stomach unwind.

"You know, I'm starting to think this isn't such a good ideaaaaaaaaa,"

Hermione's commentary transformed into screams as Draco suddenly kicked the broom into overdrive, sending them soaring through the air with astonishing speed. She understood now why he had been so adamant about waving charms over the two of them to protect them from the whipping winds and chilling temperatures at the heightened elevation.

Objectively speaking, Hermione could understand the fascination with flying. She could see how someone would find it freeing or exhilarating. But subjectively speaking, Hermione wanted nothing more than to put her feet firmly back on solid ground. She found it in no way thrilling or liberating. All she could think about was the possibility of plummeting to her death from above the clouds.

"Draco!" She wailed.

He laughed. His chest vibrated against her spine, and Hermione had to force her eyes shut as she tried desperately to press herself closer to him, willing her mind to forget the fact that she was currently soaring through the sky at an unimaginable height on an incredibly unstable piece of wood ordinarily designed for little more than light cleaning.

"_Draco_," she said between gasps of air.

"Yes?"

"Draco get me out of here," she pleaded. "I want to go down,"

"You want to go down?" He repeated.

"Yes. Now."

He emitted a low chuckle, tightened his grip on the broom, sliding his other hand around her waist securing her to him, and then placed a gentle kiss to her jaw.

"Be careful what you wish for, love,"

Hermione opened her eyes reluctantly to witness the horror of Draco tilting the front of the broom directly towards the ground – or what she presumed to be the ground since all she could see were clouds – and sped up.

"Draco!" She cried out.

They were heading straight for a valley with no indication of slowing down.

"DRACO!"

They were going to die. Surely there was no way he could pull up or slow down quickly enough for them not to become a heap of dismembered limbs.

Hermione shut her eyes, letting her screams dry out her throat as she accepted their fate.

After a moment, nothing happened. Behind her, she could feel the familiar rumble of Draco laughing silently. She dared open one eye and let out a shaky breath as she registered their position. They were floating roughly one meter above the ground.

"You said you wanted to go down," he reminded her softly, teasing her.

"I loathe you," she choked out. "I thought we were going to die!"

"I know, that's why I'm laughing."

"It's not funny!" She shot back. "Get me off of this death contraption!"

"Hm," he kissed her cheek, then the top of her head. "Not yet,"

"What do you _mean_ not yet, I – Draco – _Draco_ – AHHH!"

They took off again, him directing the broom through a series of small openings between mountain peaks with ease. He took her on a whirlwind experience, one that she imagined some masochistic person might enjoy, through open plains, enormous lakes, and snow-capped mountains before coasting amidst the cloud bank.

She didn't take a full breath once during the entire escapade.

"Did I mention that I loathe you?"

"Yes, my queen, I believe you did."

She pursed her lips, "Just making sure. It's imperative that you know."

"Understandable," he replied, nipping at her earlobe.

He dipped them a bit lower so that they were no longer surrounded by clouds. Hermione gaped at the wondrous sight before her: her palace as well as his were completely visible from their position and both glowed magically under the night sky. Each star twinkling against the black backdrop with the moon lending ample light to their evening ride through the heavens.

"Wow," she gasped.

"See, if you didn't open your eyes now and then during our little adventure then you would never have seen this." He said snottily.

Hermione didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply.

After a moment of appreciating the view of their kingdoms – or parts of them – she leaned back against his shoulder and tucked her head into his neck.

"Do you really think we'll be able to pull it off?" She asked, her lips brushing against his warm neck. "Do you think it's possible for us to unite the muggle and wizarding worlds?"

She could feel him deeply sigh.

"I think so,"

"What if – What if we can't? What if our hands are tied?"

Hermione felt the anxiety creep up; her hair standing on its end as she dared to think about what might happen if her Council rejected her amended act again. In roughly six weeks her Council would meet again to make the final decision, and if they opted not to abide by the Ministry's one demand then she didn't see how the meeting could possibly go in her favor. They would create a wall, another boundary, between her and Draco in the process; they would effectively prevent any interaction between the wizarding world and her own.

Worst of all, there would be nothing more that she could do.

Hermione already vowed to herself that she would never marry if it came to that. She would never wed herself to another man. There was truly no one else for her. From the moment she saw him, his grey eyes staring intently at her – almost as if he could see right to her soul and see his reflection in it – there had been no one else.

Only him.

Always him.

So, what were to happen should they be forbidden from being together? Hermione knew she wouldn't be able to stay away, even if she tried. Their time apart had already been enough, and she didn't want to have to relive it.

They would have to sneak around, surely, and even then, she would have to be careful (more careful than she was at the moment). Hermione would be known as the Virgin Queen. They would not be allowed to have children, and if she were so ill-fated as to give in to the sin of the flesh – or worse fall pregnant because of it – she would have to kiss her pretty head goodbye.

The panic of this desolate future had plagued her for the past fortnight as she worked tirelessly to perfect her act with her secret council and she could feel herself losing control of her breathing now, tucked into Draco's arms high up in the night sky.

She shuddered, then dared to pull away enough to angle her face toward his, brushing her lips across his; melting as his warm seeped into her.

"I love you, Draco."

He smiled against her lips, "I love you, Hermione."

There it was. The simple fact of their strength to endure the impossible that lie ahead: their undeniable and slightly foreboding love for one another.

"What if we aren't meant to be?" She said quietly, her voice cracking beneath the pressure of her dark thoughts. "What if this is not our destiny? Draco… Draco, I don't know if I can live without you."

"You know I want you. I love you. It's not a secret I try to hide," he began. "My entire House – my entire _kingdom_ – know how much you mean to me, how willing I am to fight to be beside you. Not just like this," he murmured against her ear. "I want to rule beside you, Hermione. I want to be yours in every sense of the word."

"I know that, but - "

"You know you want it, too. I know you do, so don't keep saying our hands are tied."

"Draco," she whispered.

He shook his head, tilting her chin up between his thumb and forefinger, drawing her to his darkened, stormy eyes.

"You claim it's not in the cards, that fate is pulling you miles away and out of reach from me." His hand dropped to intertwine their fingers together, and his other arm pulled her closer to him. "But you're here in my heart, so fate will never keep you far away from me. Let the Ministry try, let the Council dare, but neither of them will ever be able to convince me that you aren't my destiny."

He kissed her, sweetly at first, then tugged at her bottom lip before releasing her and settling her back into a riding position in front of him. She held on tightly, afraid of where he was going to take her next.

To her relief, he didn't soar into the starry sky with sound-breaking speed but dipped down and directed them toward Hogwarts at a leisurely pace.

"What if we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine,"

She swallowed, daring to interject despite her discomfort of flying so close to the towers. "We're trying that, but - "

"Nothing could keep us apart," he promised, taking them through a conspicuously small space in a viaduct with effortlessness. "You would be the one I was meant to find. Don't the stories usual involve a prince falling for a princess anyway? Screw the Council and their antiquated rules – their generations of hate and mistrust – because it's only up to you and me, Hermione."

She shrieked as he swooped dangerously low and then back up above the castle.

"No one can say what we get to be." Draco added, taunting her with his optimistic imagery. "If we rewrite the stars, then the world would be ours. _Ours_."

He turned them swiftly away from Hogwarts, and toward the House of Slytherin. She yelped as the treetops caught on the edges of her skirts, tearing them. Draco dared to sit up dip a hand below the broom, tickling the coniferous leaves.

Hermione shook her head, willing her teeth not to chatter or let him hear the fear in her voice as she objected to his dream of their union.

"You think it's easy – Defying a room full of old, privileged men who want nothing more than to see one of them with the crown on his head instead of the young, opinionated woman they are stuck with?"

She caught the scent of freshly cut grass and mint; the scent of _him_.

"You think I don't want to run to you?" Hermione shouted over the whoops and cheers from the townspeople below that spotted their king and his muggle darling. "But there are obstacles, Draco. The Council can be as impenetrable as a mountain, as impossible to move."

He brought them lower, sweeping skillfully between the people in the busy streets and then back around to his palace with a contagious smile that Hermione fought to wear as well.

"Why don't you just go against them? I could protect you from anything they try to do. I am King of Magic after all," he stated simply.

She wanted to say, _Even magic can't keep my head on my shoulders_.

Instead, Hermione nodded to the Manor – deeply afraid of letting go of the broom as he so recklessly did – and went on, "We're lucky. We're able to be who we are, who we want to be, just you and me within these walls. But if we were to be as forward with each other beyond your walls, then you would see what I mean. You'll wake up and see that going against them is hopeless."

He twirled a curl between his fingers, leaning in to place a kiss against her cheek but she pulled away.

"No one can rewrite the stars," she said, nearly choking. "I've tried. If the Council rejects my attempt to do so again, Draco, there's nothing… _nothing_… I can do."

He cradled his body around her, bringing them both into a low crouch as he sped up, soaring through the night sky back toward her castle. Toward the only thing stopping them from being together.

"How can you say you'll be mine?" She begged, her head turning slightly so that her lips brushed against his clenched jaw; so that her words didn't die out in the harsh winds. "How can you promise that when everything keeps us apart! Maybe you aren't my destiny, Draco. Maybe I'm not the one you were meant to find."

Hermione held her breath as he tilted the front of the broom again, sending them toward her gardens at an unsettling speed.

"It's not up to you. It's not up to me. It _never_ was." She swallowed a sob that dared to surface. "When everyone tells us – tells _me_ – what we can be, then how can we rewrite the stars? How can the world be ours?"

Draco sat back as they gave into gravity, and he pulled her hands off of the broom, intertwining them with his and forcing her to lean back against him.

"All I want is to be here – in this moment – with you. All I want is to fly with you," he held her tightly as she shrieked as they descended faster and faster. "All I want is to fall with you, so just give me all of you."

He brought them to a stop just before the ground threatened to swallow them up, just as he did before, but this time he helped her off the death contraption and pulled her into him. His warm breath against her neck; his fingers tangled in her wind-swept hair.

Hermione gripped onto his shoulder blades, tugging him down to her and cradling him as best as she could due to their height difference. Eventually, her heaving sobs dissolved into hiccups.

He pulled away from her slightly, just enough to brush his knuckles against her cheeks, effectively wiping away any remaining tears.

"Just give me all of you,"

"It's impossible," she choked.

His lips twisted up into a mischievous grin, "It's not impossible."

"_How_? How can you be so sure?"

"Do you trust me?" He asked, tucking loose, frizzy curls behind her ears as his grey eyes searched her face.

Hermione sighed.

"With every bone in my body," she promised.

"Then trust that your amendment will work. The demands of the Ministry are foolproof for getting what we want," he assured her. "The Council will have no choice by to pass your Amalgam Act. Then it'll be just you and me."

"You promise?"

He bent his head, taking her next breath in his; the warmth of his kiss spread throughout her body. Hermione welcomed his assurance, his strength, and reveled in the simplicity of the feeling of his touch.

"You were made to be mine, Draco Malfoy, King of Magic."

He laughed against her lips, drawing a smile from hers.

"You are the one I was meant to find, Hermione Granger, Queen of the Great Kingdom, and _no one_ can keep us apart."

. . .

_1 May 1456_

_2:58 am_

As expected, Hermione had been thoroughly reprimanded.

The minute she stepped back into the stone walls of the castle, she was bombarded by a frantic, guilt-ridden Daphne. Hermione had waved her off, thanking her for at least trying to maintain some level of secrecy before Pansy intervened.

"She saw right through the whole thing," Daphne wailed, hurrying Hermione through the halls toward one of the most frequently used sitting rooms where the rest of her close friends and advisors were waiting anxiously for her arrival. "It's all Harry's fault, really. He wouldn't stop pestering me about _the tea thing_ and of course Pansy overheard so - "

"It's alright, Daph. Breathe," she said, patting the girl's hand that was linked with her own before they stepped through the doors.

It took no time at all for Minerva to give Hermione a piece of her mind. Hermione sat in a silk-covered armchair facing the furious woman, who only stopped her incessant pacing to shout half-admonishments at her.

To her left sat her Hand and behind her stood Dean and Seamus with the former looking very much like he wished he could scold Hermione as well, but since he couldn't – seeing as Minerva was the only lower-ranking person in the entire kingdom to have such a luxury – he had to settle for intermittently huffing his disapproval as Minerva tore her a new one.

"YOU BLANTANTLY DISREGARDED THE SAFETY PROTOCOLS - " Minerva roared.

"There are no protocols for _flying brooms_," Snape commented drily, not looking up from his book by the hearth.

" – YOU COULD HAVE BEEN HURT,"

Harry and Daphne shrank beneath Pansy's cutting glare on the other side of the hearth as she silently agreed with Minerva and passed on her anger to them and their irresponsibleness via shrewd eyes and crossed arms.

"YOU COULD HAVE BEEN _KILLED_, AND THEN WHAT?"

Snape licked his finger, then turned another page.

"Minerva," Hermione attempted cautiously.

"HERMIONE GRANGER I DID NOT PROMISE YOUR PARENTS THAT I WOULD LOOK AFTER YOU SO THAT YOU COULD GO GALLIVANTING - "

"Flying," Snape interjected.

" – AROUND WITH A BOY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!"

A loud huff from behind her.

"HOW DARE YOU! HOW _VERY_ DARE YOU!"

It went on like that for quite some time, unfortunately.

Still, that was not what troubled Hermione and caused her to toss and turn for hours in her bed. It was what Draco had promised her, what he had assured her without a shadow of a doubt, to be true.

"Wait what?" She had said upon hearing the demand his Ministry had for her kingdom. "How can you know that?"

He had shrugged, unfazed by the information (which she supposed made sense since he had known about it his whole life).

"It's a simple fact. It's actually _Mary's First Commandment of Magic, _though the second one will apply as well, following the first obviously." He informed her.

"I think it's marvelous that women are so accomplished in the wizarding world. No glass ceiling, you know." She shook her head. "That's beside the point though. If what you're saying is true - "

"It is,"

" – then, half of the Council - "

"Yes,"

" – which means that - "

"That they'll rule in favor of intermingling our kingdoms and approving of our marriage? Yes." He beamed.

Hermione finally let a smile stretch across her lips, swollen from kissing him, and then gasped.

"Wait…"

He arched a silver brow at her, probably predicting what she had only just realized but remained silent, letting her mind run wild.

She blinked.

"Wait… Could I – Could I be -?"

"Yes,"

Now, haunted by the possibility of her own future for an entirely different reason than she was earlier that day, raked a hand through her unruly hair and stared up at the drapes surrounding her four-post bed.

In six weeks, she would sit on her throne – finally wearing the crown and officially donning the title she had been born to – and an old, tattered magical hat would be ceremonially placed on her head. It would speak to her, Draco informed her, and it would tell her everything she needed to know. It would see into her soul, into her very _being_ and it would tell her what it saw.

It would determine if Hermione would be Queen of Magic in her own right, not just by (hopefully, eventually) marrying Draco.

All of a sudden, she couldn't wait for that day to come.

_Let the Sorting begin_, she thought.

. . .

**A/N - **_Phew_! Fun fact (or not, up to you): This story was formulated around this chapter and specifically around the flight Draco and Hermione go on. It came to me when I was listening to _Rewrite the Stars_ \- which should be quite evident from the mirror of lyrics, etc during the flight - and was almost the title of this WIP instead of _Revelations_. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! This is approximately the half-way point for the story, by the way xx


	11. The Coronation

. . .

_**Chapter 11 – The Coronation**_

. . .

_7 May 1456_

_6:15 am_

Today's the day.

The sun is shining.

Hermione of House Granger is going to be crowned Queen.

It was with heavy lids that Hermione rose from her bed and let her handmaids prepare her for a morning bath. The water was warm, seeping into her pore less skin and slowly bringing her to full consciousness.

As expected, she hadn't slept well last night.

However, unlike the other fitful nights of sleep revolving around the uncertainty of her future with Draco, this sleepless night was the result of pure excitement. She wasn't nervous. She wasn't anxious. She was _ready_.

Today everything she'd been told her whole life would feel real.

Hermione had been nearly two years of age when she had rightfully become queen, losing both of her parents to a terrible influenza outbreak. It had affected most of their kingdom, spreading well-within the safety of the castle walls in a matter of weeks. Minerva, at the time being her mother's advisor, had been tasked with smuggling Hermione out of the kingdom and into the wild unknown.

Her parents had somehow believed she would be safer outside of the palace walls and in some secluded cottage on an uncivilized mountaintop. When Hermione had been told this was how she survived the perilous outbreak, she had turned on Minerva in an unprecedented fit of fury.

She couldn't understand how it had been in her best interest to be separated from her parents, to be practically exiled to the farthest reaches of her kingdom and forced to remain there with on Minerva for company – no guards, no nanny's, nothing – for nearly a year. Until the outbreak ceased.

Though, ceased was hardly the best word to describe what happened.

Influenza, as far as her people understood from scholars like Grand Master Snape, was a lethal disease that spread like wildfire from one person to another simply by breathing the same air as a sickly individual. It also rapidly deteriorated and morphed into a stronger, deadlier disease the longer it was able to 'live' and move from host to host.

When it had finally breached Hogwarts, and Hermione was smuggled out in the dead of the night (a lone heir had always been a precarious position to be in, especially when the heir in question was without means of defending herself… much less eating unassisted), it had run rampant and infected nearly half of the occupants.

The only feasible way scholars could see to rid the kingdom of such a horrible beast, was to set it aflame. As there was no cure, any individual who displayed symptoms was subject to death and then promptly burned to attempt to kill the disease.

It worked.

But it also meant that when Hermione returned to her palace, it felt like a barren wasteland with hardly anyone left. It also meant that there had been nothing left of her parents to bury. The grave she visited every year in August was empty.

Still, Hermione had instructed Minerva to schedule an hour for her to visit them that morning.

She knelt in the rich earth and crossed her legs in front of her knowing full-well that Minerva wasn't present (and her guards waiting at a polite distance) to scold her for sitting in the most unladylike, childish manner.

Hermione sighed, running her hands over the stone.

_Here lies the beloved_

_King Henry Granger_

_Queen Elizabeth Lewis Granger_

_God save the King, God save the Queen_

She wished she had known them. She would have liked to know what they thought of their only daughter ascending to the throne today all the while pushing against her Council for the intermingling of wizarding and non-wizarding kingdoms. At the very least, she would have liked to know what they were like.

Not what people told her they were like (kind, generous, respected, witty were the usual adjectives) and not what she imagined them to be like.

Sometimes, Hermione would play a little game with herself and try to presume what her mother or father would say about one thing or another that she did. That day, it resolved itself in more of the trivial aspects than the political ones.

When Pansy arrived with her crown, a gleaming silver diadem with enormous sapphires and diamonds embedded in its petite frame, Hermione imagined her mother commenting about how the color-scheme was a delightful change from the gaudy golds and reds that ruled the palace's aesthetic. When Minerva directed Dean and Seamus into her antechamber with the royal regalia, Hermione imagined her father telling her an amusing story about how heavy the blasted objects were.

It made her smile.

It made that day bearable without them because then it didn't actually feel like they weren't there with her (though, she knew from her lessons, that there was no feasible way they would ever have been present during her coronation).

. . .

_7 May 1456_

_10:04 am_

"Are you _sure_ that thing is going to fit over the diadem?" Hermione asked, glancing over her shoulder to Minerva with a dubious expression.

"That _thing_, young lady, is the Imperial State Crown of our kingdom's very first sovereign, King Edward I." She practically snapped in response, chastising Hermione with her sullen glare. "Yes, it will fit. It will be heavy, of course. But you would already know that from your week wearing it, yes?"

The question was less of a general inquiry and more of another scolding. Hermione fought a grimace, remembering how irritating that particular task had been. "Yes, Minerva."

Which was true. Hermione _had_ worn the enormous crown over the past week during her daily activities: during tea, responding to letters with her Hand, and reading in the library. The task was meant to accustom her to the feel and weight of the crown on her head.

However, she hadn't had to wear both the diadem _and_ the crown yet. The former would be for her daily use and Queen and was therefore lighter, prettier, and overall easier to manage; it had been selected especially for her and never worn by another monarch (all of the previous monarchs had their own crown which was then retired after their reign). The latter, as Minerva so snappily mentioned, is the Imperial State Crown and thus shared by all of the monarchs for occasions such as this and was therefore a coronation tradition.

But Minerva, as usual – much to Hermione's dismay – had been right. They did fit fine together. If anything, it gave Hermione a slight slouch from the additional weight. Luckily, she was only expected to wear them simultaneously for about an hour or so during the ceremony.

It wasn't going to be held in the Royal Chapel as it was unfit to hold everyone, and also much too secluded not only within the palace, but also within the kingdom.

Instead, it would be held at a nearby and enormous abbey aptly named Daenerys Abbey after the beloved wife of St. George who was close with a former king and thus gifted the impressive set of gothic buildings for his Godly work.

"Pans, it's fine," Hermione said, trying to spin away from her friends' ever-present fingers.

"It's not _fine_," she said tightly. "I will _not_ have my best friend and Queen looking anything less than perfect and bloody heavenly during her coronation."

Daphne giggled, sharing a look with Hermione. "Don't you think it's sinful to be cursing in a church?"

"We're in a church," Pansy replied smartly. "We're in the entrance hall of a church."

Hermione scoffed, "Oh, yes, you're right Pans. I'm sure God will understand."

"Oh, hush, both of you!"

Daphne flicked at an imaginary piece of dust of Hermione's dress and sighed contently at her masterpiece. "I wish Theo were here to see how wonderful his vision came out."

"It's so unfair that they can't be here," Hermione agreed. "Believe me, I tried."

"Oh, we know." Pansy sniffed, patting the end of her train down repeatedly.

"Pans, will you leave that alone and come here?" She called over her shoulder.

"Why?" Her eyes narrowed. "You're not going to give us some sentimental speech about how grateful you are to have us and how honored you are to be participating in such a monumental ceremony and divine tradition? Because, Hermione, I simply do not have the time nor patience for such nonsense."

Hermione sighed, "I love you too, Pans."

Daphne, however, offered Hermione a brilliant smile, dimpling her rosy cheeks. "It was worth a shot – and for the record, I _am_ immensely appreciative of your efforts and your friendship, Hermione."

"Thank you," she said before shooting a glance askance at Pansy that said, _Why can't you be less difficult like Daphne?_

"Hermione!"

She shoved her shoulders back, chin up, and clasped her hands in front of her at the shrillness of Minerva's voice. Daphne and Pansy silently stood behind her, heads down and hands clasped.

"Ladies," Minerva breathed, summoning both of her friends to snap their heads up. "Go on into the church and take your seats, Her Majesty can handle the rest from here on her own."

"Yes ma'am," they said in unison before gliding out of the antechamber and into the naval. Daphne turned over her shoulder at the last second to send Hermione a reassuring look and soft smile which made her feel instantly better following their absence.

"Dear," Minerva continued, her voice softening slightly. More parental, less advisor. "Are you ready?"

"Absolutely," Hermione responded without hesitation.

. . .

_7__May 1456_

_11:00 am_

The scent of lavender and eucalyptus wafted through the naval of the church; the late morning light cascading through one wall of the tinted windows cast several rays of colored light on Hermione as she made her way down the aisle, under the vault.

It took eight young maidens, all dressed in white with floral wreaths around their heads, to carry the train of her robe. It was lovely. A crimson velvet mantle edged with ermine and featuring two rows of delicately embroidered gold lace and gold filigree.

At the dais, where a throne awaited her but before she took her place in it, she was to kneel before it, the Archbishop and God and vow her life to her kingdom.

The maidens placed the robe gently on the marble floor of the church and scampered away to the sidelines. As Hermione waited – the robe and overlay of her gown stripped so that she stood in a simple white dress of little status – several notable men appeared from a back room bringing with them a golden canopy to shield Hermione from view during the most sacred of the coronation rituals: the anointing.

Chief among them was the Archbishop who was responsible and authorized to anoint her under God just as he had done for her father.

It was the single most sacred, most holy, most solemn moment of the entire service (and also of Hermione's life thus far).

Over the organs playing in the background, guiding the procession, Hermione's peripheral vision and trained ears caught the high-pitch inquiry of one of the young maidens.

"Why are they covering her up?" The child asked.

"This is the anointing," the older girl informed her. "This is one of the most important moments for the new Queen."

The child was clearly distraught at being left out of something so unique and special. "Well, how come we don't get to see what happens?" She protested.

"Because," another one of the elder girls chimed in. "We are mere mortals."

That was the last Hermione heard or saw of them before her view was obscured by an ostentatious gold veil. Four of her knights held the posters of the canopy, but since she couldn't see them once it was in place, she had no hope of identifying them.

The Archbishop didn't enter the space, that was reserved for Hermione and God, but he did make his presence known; she peered up at him from the open front of the canopy (it was designed so that this next interaction was obscured from view of the remainder of the guests, thus preserving its holiness).

He presented her with a Declaration which she readily signed.

Hermione twisted her fingers in front of her, resisting the urge to shift on the pillow she knelt on as he cleared his throat.

"Miss, is Your Majesty willing to take the Oath?"

"I am willing."

She held out her hands to him.

"By thy hands, anointed, with holy oil." The older man, wheezing slightly, leaned forward enough to reach out to her chest without letting his head fall under her canopy. "By thy breast, anointed, with holy oil." His hands shifted upwards. "By thy head, anointed, with holy oil."

He looked upon her then, and she thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile beneath his (literally) holier-than-thou expression.

"As Kings, priests and prophets were anointed. And as Solomon was anointed… King by Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet, so be thou anointed, blessed, and consecrated Queen of the peoples, whom the Lord thy God hath given thee to rule and govern, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost… Amen."

Hermione inhaled and exhaled a long breath, meeting the dark eyes of the Archbishop.

"Amen."

He placed a heavy, leather book in her hands and ministered several sets of lengthy questions requiring a mere two words from her in response, though they were hardly without weight.

_Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the Peoples of this Great Kingdom, and of your Possessions and other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to our respective laws and customs? _

_Will you to your power cause Law and Justice in Mercy to be executed in all of your Judgements? _

_Will you to the utmost of your power – maintain the Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel? – maintain in the Great Kingdom the Great Catholic Religion established by law? _

Hermione felt her blood coursing through her veins.

"I will."

"Rise, my child," he instructed kindly.

She did so, and the canopy was removed from around her, making her visible to the rest of the abbey's guests once again. Hermione felt the trickle of hands on her shoulders as the young maidens stepped forward once more to drape her massive gown as well as the Imperial Robe over her.

Then, she lifted one diamond-covered shoe to step up to the top of the dais. She turned slowly, hearing Minerva's warnings in the back of her head, and stood before the throne for a full minute before sitting in it. The train of her robe billowing out in front of her, cascading beautifully down the steps and onto the main floor.

The Archbishop took the Sovereign's Orb from someone and held it out in open arms to her; he placed it in her right hand, and she gritted her teeth beneath tight lips at the insurmountable weight of the bejeweled object.

"Does Your Majesty take this orb as a symbol of her strength of Godly power in Christ's dominion over the world?"

She nodded her affirmation, "I do."

He took the Sovereign's Sceptre and held it in front of her, "Does Your Majesty take this sceptre as a symbol of equity and mercy, as a reminder that she must punish the wicked, protect and cherish the just, and lead her people in the way wherein they go?"

"I do."

Finally, he held the crown of King Edward I and lowered it onto her head, covering the diadem as he did so, and shouted the last of his official sentiments.

"By the power invested in me, by the divine right of God, I pronounce you Her Royal Highness, Hermione of the House Granger, the First of Her Name, by the Grace of God, Queen of Palace of Hogwarts, Queen of the Great Kingdom, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faith, Head of the Commonwealth, and Lady Regent of the First Kingdom."

When he stepped away from the dais, the rest of the party attending to her coronation did as well, leaving a narrow but open pathway toward the exit of the church on the far side of the room.

The choir began to sing _Zadok the Priest _followed by the entirety of the abbey chorusing _God Save the Queen_.

Hermione held her chin high; she felt regal, but she wanted to look it, too.

The Imperial State Crown had four fleurs-de-lis and four crosses, supporting two dipped arches topped by a monde and a cross, its crimson velvet cap trimmed with ermine, and set with hundreds of precious and semi-precious stones.

The Sovereign's Sceptre was a meter in length, holding the world's largest diamond surrounded by hundreds of smaller rubies, its gold rod set in an enameled heart-shape surmounted by enameled brackets mounted with an array of emeralds, sapphires, diamonds and amethyst that extend all the way to the hilt.

The Sovereign's Orb was a solid gold sphere mounted with hundreds of diamonds and pearls surrounded by smaller emeralds and rubies, the monde was made of a cut amethyst, surmounted by a cross set with heart-shaped sapphires and a single pink diamond embedded in its center.

Her gown – a masterpiece in its own making, made even more striking by her regalia – sparkled as the pearls, sapphires and diamonds caught the rays of light peeking through the abbey.

It was made of a gorgeous virgin-white silk and a corset designed to make her torso and waist appear enviably small, accentuated by the width of her skirts. The extraneous ballgown shape normally had to be held up by an uncomfortable metal skirt, but thanks to Theo's magical advancements and hand in the design, the skirts held themselves aloft and full without any medieval contraption.

There were several overlays on top of the white silk that made Hermione giddy upon seeing the gown; the first being the gold flowers and leaves charmed to dance and flow as they normally would in a soft summer breeze as she walked, and the second being the accents of blue that perfectly complimented her diadem that were also charmed to sparkle no matter the intensity of light present.

There were other details as well that she could see were Daphne's hand in the design. Notably, the translucent sleeves that hung off of the small white caps at her shoulders were reminiscent of Hermione's favorite ballgown. It gave her a young, soft demeanor (which she arguably was) that helped her appear more endearing and welcoming despite the intimidating regalia she donned.

The only personal jewelry Hermione wore was a single, sapphire and pearl bracelet gifted to her by Draco.

He wasn't allowed to be at her coronation.

None of the witches or wizards were allowed. Per her Council's law that this particular event was _not_ voluntary by some who wished not to interact with the wizarding world.

When she had told him such, he had said he understood, then proceeded to ask her what would be different had he been able to attend. She assured him that many things would be different, the most important being that he would be the first – aside from the Archbishop – to pay homage to her since his own status as a monarch gave him the right above her own dukes and lords.

"What would I do? What would I say?" He'd pressed.

She'd told him, and he – the most honorable and loving man she knew – knelt down before her in the field they sat in and did and said just that.

"I, Draco Malfoy, King of the Wizarding World, do become your liege man of life and limb, and of earthly worship. And faith and truth I will bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folks." He looked at her and she hastily wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "So help me God."

Then, he had stood and took her in his arms and kissed her until she couldn't breathe.

. . .

_7 May 1456_

_3:46 pm_

"What the hell is this?"

Pansy winced, unable to school her face into submission quicker than her reflexes could react. Due to the importance of the day, Viscount Parkinson staying in the palace with his wife. Pansy had done her best – as she had to do every few months when he blew into town for Council meetings – to be doting on her parents and behave the perfect noble daughter they expected her to be.

His temper was uncalled for, though that was hardly what rattled her.

It was the handful of envelopes he held in his hand, thrusting them accusingly in her face in the middle of a busy corridor. She tried to keep her posture firm and not let anyone see how panicked and unnerved he made her.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" Her father plucked one letter after another, reading from them with growing vehemence, "_He is a kind and generous man that loves me beyond compare,"_ he snarled. "_Please, Father, consent to an engagement,"_ He immediately tore the letters into shreds, his dark eyes flashing red with anger. "How dare you? How _dare_ you? After everything your mother and I have done to give you the best life, the best upbringing, and the most envied stature? For you to return the favor by behaving so childishly…YOU'RE A QUEEN'S LADY FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! YOU'RE A _PARKINSON_. Is this truly the best you can do?"

He went on and on, much to her disbelief.

He clearly didn't care who in the castle overheard them (which would be a ridiculous number of courtiers due to the welcoming of the new Queen following her coronation ceremony).

He continued to deface, disgrace, and all but damn the man who had turned his daughter into a worthless pile of emotions and disobedience: Henry James Potter, Duke of Grimmauld.

The Viscount was of course clever enough not to actually _name_ which duke he was screaming about, though to Pansy that particular detail was all but irrelevant.

When he finally tired of berating her, he stormed off and left her to collect herself and somehow repair the damage he'd done to her reputation. Pansy felt ill, her ribs barely capable of contracting in the corset and thus not allowing a _single goddamn breath of fresh air_.

Pansy started to hyperventilate.

She rushed into the nearest accommodating room and heaved over the side of a desk chair, bearing her weight on its solid oak structure and hoping that it wouldn't break beneath her grip. Her knuckles flushed white, her face speckled red, and the stinging behind her eyes renewed at every wave of tears she bit back.

"Hey," came the most unexpected (or expected depending on one's views of the laws of chance) voice. "Are you alright?"

Pansy swallowed the pit in her throat, then let shifted to try and break the ribbon at the back of her dress which was very likely to suffocate her any minute.

"Fuck," Harry swore. "Obviously, you're not. Here, let me help you with that," and then his hands, his perfectly skilled and nimble fingers, were on the nape of her neck. He brushed away her chignon enough to tuck the flourished neckline aside and then started to quickly undo the ribbon. With a familiarity that suggested he had done it hundreds of times. Which he had.

"Harry," she gasped between breaths, finally able to fully contract her lungs. "Harry, I didn't mean to – I don't know how he – I just - "

"Hey, hey," he turned her once her dress was successfully undone and took her in his arms. She buried her face into the warmth of his neck. "Shh, Pans, it's alright. I'm here."

"But," she hiccupped. "You shouldn't be. Especially after the way my father - "

"Fuck that," he said. His words and tone were sharp and threatening despite the soothing nature of his hands running through her hair, tugging it loose. "I'm here _because_ of what your father said. I've told you it doesn't matter to me what he – or anyone else – thinks of me. I want you, Pans, I love you. Now that he knows, why don't you give in to us? What's the worst that could happen?"

He had a point.

Still.

Pansy knew the premise of her father's wrath had been based on the notion that she had been solely entertaining Harry without going so far as to formally be courted by him (not that he would have ever let her, hence her refrain from allowing Harry to do so). She knew that if he truly knew the nature of their relationship (i.e. the sexual portion) then he wouldn't have reacted so violently and publicly.

Instead, he would have sighed, told her how displeased he was that her upbringing had been a complete waste of his time and money, and then ensured that Hermione approved of the marriage of her lady to the roguish duke before any courtiers caught wind of the truth.

In retrospect, Pansy almost wished she'd included some explicit details about Harry's sexual prowess or beautiful penis.

But she hadn't.

"I can't," she told Harry finally, backing away from his hold. "Nothing's changed."

"What?"

Pansy knew her father had been right about a couple of things during his rant, namely in that she _had_ been behaving childishly, writing letters to her parents and begging for their approval of her unorthodox choice like some lovesick teenager. She was better than that.

Pansy was the type of woman to be feared, to be respected, _not_ to be sympathized.

She abruptly straightened her posture and fixed her trembling lip into a more appropriate grimace.

Harry made her soft; he always had. He had this way of getting under her skin, finding out what truly made her tick, and then loving her regardless of how impolite or cold she was in response to his discovery.

She did want to be with him, to run away with him as he so bluntly proposed. She wanted to run back to his bedchambers without a care in the world – to stay the whole night and watch the sun rise wrapped in his arms. She wanted to show him just how much he meant to her, and to let him weasel his way into her mind and get to know her.

Oh, Heaven knows, Pansy had always wanted that. From the moment his stupid, _irresistible_ green eyes followed her around the room when they first met.

It was lovely, objectively speaking, that he was kind enough to see her for what she was and not run screaming for the hills. It was also, however, subjectively speaking, not ideal for her predicament.

He was _too_ good for her.

She would never truly be able to rid herself of her father or mend her reputation if she gave into him. Pansy would never truly be free.

Which was, evidently, more important to her than being loved by him. Or so she had just learned about herself, having been faced with that exact dilemma. The only problem she could identify was that Harry wasn't going away any time soon, and certainly not for a reason as logical as fear of disappointing her parents.

If the logical answer wasn't working then… perhaps, it was time for the illogical answer.

"I wish, _I wish_, that I could let you love me, Henry Potter. But I can't, because _I _don't love _you_."

He blinked.

"Wait – What? – Pans,"

"No," she cut him off. "Just… Stop."

He raked a hand through his hair, and she could see the pain flash behind his eyes. But this was no time for her to be weak; she would have to really drive the stake in and finish the job for him to let her go.

"I told you, from the beginning, this was nothing to me. Just sex. Now, it's even less than that. I said I was done, that we were done, and I meant it. This was… a lapse in judgement." She fastened her dress closed again and continued backing up, heading for the door. "It won't happen again."

"If this is about your father, Pans - "

"It's not." She snapped. "It's about me and you. We were never compatible. We were never more than strangers, and you said it yourself, I'm hot and cold."

"Listen - "

"No, _you listen_. I never loved you, Harry, and I never will. You're not good enough for me, don't you understand? It was _never_ going to be more than sex."

"But the letters…"

She huffed.

Bloody fucking letters.

"They weren't about you."

His eyes glinted dangerously dark, and she knew he was finally growing angry with her. Perhaps it was to cover her hurtful words, or to tell himself that this was another one of their banters, their games, that resulted in sweet-nothings and simultaneous climaxes.

It wasn't.

"Then who the fuck were they about?" He hissed.

She shrugged, forcing her breath not to hitch. "The Duke of Hogsmeade. I met him a few days ago when he arrived in town for the coronation. Apparently, his family may or may not have historical ties with the wizarding world so, Father heartily disapproved. Clearly."

He seethed silently.

"Anyway," she went on. "I best be going. I have to go apologize to the young man for my father's words as well as to Hermione for causing such a scene in her court."

She spun towards the door, feeling particularly rattled and numb, but Harry wasn't done quite yet.

"So, it all a lie, then?" He shouted at her back. "The whole time, the whole relationship, you had no intention of accepting my proposal?"

"No. Nor will I let you call what we had a 'relationship'."

That should do it, she thought terribly.

. . .

_7 May 1456_

_5:12 pm_

The evening festivities were to be held in a carefully curated communal area so that both wizarding and muggle guests could attend. It had been Hermione's idea – and much to the Council's dismay, Daphne imagined – that the party be held between the two kingdoms in order for it to qualify as voluntary to the muggle guests.

The Greengrass' and Parkinson's politely declined invitation to the coronation celebration ball of their new Queen, however Daphne and Pansy's allegiances fell closer to the very queen in question and thus were able to attend.

The party was magnificent, though after visiting the Malfoy Manor, Daphne had come to expect the wondrous impossibilities that came with parties hosted by Kings of Magic.

Draco, the unbelievably adoring man that he was, had offered to throw the party for Hermione in her honor and alleviate the pains of hosting and organizing such an extravaganza. She had blushingly obliged.

"This is remarkable," Daphne gaped as the three of them walked up to the entrance of the party. Hermione had waited until nearly half an hour into the start of the celebration to make her grand appearance – per Pansy's suggestion and Draco's agreeance – and stood regal as ever with Daphne and Pansy at her sides. "I don't think I will ever tire of magic."

"Me neither," Hermione smiled.

"How detrimentally romantic you two are about everything is truly worrisome," Pansy sniffed.

Daphne shot her a reprimanding glance, "What has got you in such a sour mood? I mean, we both know you aren't the _most_ optimistic on a good day, per se, but still… This feels different."

Hermione tilted her head, "You're not still upset about your father, are you? I told you I would take care of it."

"Your father?" Daphne blinked. "Wait – What happened?"

"Nothing," Pansy snapped at her, then glared at Hermione. "I told you not to bring it up anymore, did I not, Hermione?"

Hermione sighed, frustrated. "Pans,"

"No," Pansy tutted. "Not another word from you. You've already done enough by talking to my father _and_ that fool from Hogsmeade. I have no intention of owing you any more than I already do."

"Pans, you don't _owe_ me. You're my friend. It's what friends _do_." Hermione insisted.

"But what did you do?" Daphne pressed, still feeling completely lost.

"Nothing," Pansy answered for Hermione, effectively silencing her. "Nothing of importance anyway."

"Pans, this is ridiculous, will you just _talk_ to us?"

Hermione, finally weighing that it was worth Pansy's threats to loop Daphne into the conversation, turned to her with a small frown. "Pansy's father found some letters that Pansy had feelings for a notable duke and unfairly cornered her in the middle of the palace. It was quite the row. I'm surprised you didn't hear of it."

"Letters…" Daphne mused, then her eyes widened.

Pansy had her darks eyes narrowed warningly on her, "Don't you _dare…_" but Daphne couldn't help herself from letting it slip.

"The ones about Harry?"

"Harry?" Hermione looked back and forth between the two of them. "Pans, you swore they were about Marcus."

"Marcus?" Daphne blinked.

"Marcus Flint, Duke of Hogsmeade," Hermione supplied.

"They were about him." Pansy protested.

Daphne shook her head, "No, they weren't. You can't lie to us, Pans, they were definitely about Harry."

"How do you know?" Hermione gaped. "I mean, I definitely believe that way more than what Pansy told me earlier but…"

"I read the letters," Daphne shrugged.

"WHAT?"

Pansy flung out her hand to back Hermione away from Daphne, "That's enough of that. Daphne, _what_ did I tell you the other day?"

Daphne grimaced; her brows furrowed. "Pans, that's not fair."

"Listen, I don't care about fair, that should be obvious enough by now." Pansy stated. "I told you that if you even _breathed_ a word about those letters to anyone that I would be forced to talk about your unhealthy pining for - "

"Ok, ok!" Daphne shrieked. "I get it. I'm sorry, but Pans… This should be a _good_ thing. Hermione deserves to know, certainly."

"Yes, I do!" Hermione huffed, trying – and failing – to push past Pansy.

"Uh, uh." Pansy remarked. "You give me no choice, Daph."

"Wait!"

Pansy then turned from Daphne to Hermione with a particular haughty expression and her nose in the air. "Daphne is in love with Theo."

"PANS!"

"WHAT?" Hermione gaped, her hands flying to cover her mouth briefly before dropping to point an accusatory finger at Daphne. "I _knew_ it!"

Daphne pouted, "Well, Pansy is in love with Harry even though she would rather _die_ than ever admit to wanting to be with him!"

"DAPHNE I SPECIFICALLY TOLD YOU - "

"YOU LITERALLY JUST TOLD HER ANYWAY SO WHY SHOULD I CARE?"

"BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW BADLY YOU WANT IT TO, NOTHING WILL EVER COME OF ME AND HARRY SO WILL YOU _DESIST_?"

"I DON'T BELIEVE THAT!"

Pansy threw her hands in the air. "I DON'T CARE! KEEP YOUR ANNOYINGLY PERFECT NOSE OUT OF MY BUSINESS!"

"WELL, YOU SHOULD LEARN TO HIDE YOUR LETTERS BETTER NEXT TIME!"

"WELL, MAYBE _YOU_ SHOULDN'T BE SNOOPING ABOUT OTHER PEOPLES CHAMBERS WHILE THEY TRY TO USE THE TOILET IN PEACE!"

"SNOOPING?" Daphne scoffed. "_SNOOPING? _THEY WERE LITERALLY ON THE TOP OF YOUR WRITING DESK PLAIN AS DAY!"

"WILL BOTH OF YOU STOP?" Hermione bellowed, coming to stand between them with a look of complete annoyance across her face. "Oh my _god_… Both of you."

Daphne and Pansy both crossed their arms, pouted, and then turned away mumbling "She started it," under their breaths.

"I can't," Hermione said. "I can't with you two."

First she rounded on Pansy: "Will you _please _just defy your father for once in your life and go after Harry? He makes you happy, Pans, although you continue to deny it to literally everyone in your life which I suspect includes yourself."

Then, she rounded on Daphne: "And _you_, I should have known it was a lie when you said you didn't think of Theo like that. Break whatever you're doing off with Cedric, he'll understand I'm sure of it, and in the long run you will be better off. Then go talk to Theo."

Daphne exchanged a wary glance with Pansy, then both of them regarded Hermione as though she had grown three heads in the last five minutes.

"No," they replied in unison.

Hermione exhaled but resolved to say no more on either subject, instead turning toward the entrance to the party the three of them were supposed to have already walked through. Daphne followed in her wake, toying nervously at the pink flowers sewn into her lace and silk gown at the thought of having to run into Theo that evening. It was inevitable, of course.

Theo was best friends with Draco who was in love with _her_ best friend resulting in them being unhelpfully within each other's proximity during most of the party. The added presence of Cedric halfway through the night was just shy of disastrous for Daphne.

"So," Cedric said with a kind smile toward Theo. "What is it that you do?"

"Mostly keep this one out of trouble," he replied, gesturing to Draco who had pulled Hermione aside, leaving the three of them to converse. "Occasionally I'm drafted for other tasks such as hunting vengeful serpents, designing a coronation gown, and researching dark magic." He shrugged.

Cedric seemed impressed, and even intrigued. She didn't blame him; it was difficult for anyone not to fall for Theo's charming personality.

"That's incredible I mean – Wait – Did you say you designed the coronation gown?"

Daphne, her arm linked dutifully in his, looked at him skeptically. "Of all of the extracurriculars he mentioned, _that's_ what you fixated on?"

Cedric shrugged sheepishly. "I don't really understand the other things he mentioned - No offense," – "None taken," – "Plus, I was curious as to how Hermione achieved the illusions on her dress."

"It was mostly Greengrass' artistic mind," Theo noted, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a long, languid sip.

Cedric let out a low whistle, "It was beautiful."

"Hm, well she is clever." Theo commented.

Cedric, not catching the gleam in Theo's blue eyes, continued, "I mean, I don't have an eye for fashion, but I don't think anyone needed that to see how iconic the gown was. It was hard to look away from her,"

Theo eyed Daphne, "I don't doubt it."

She cleared her throat, "I'm glad she chose to wear it to the party tonight. It's really a shame that none of you could be there for the anointment."

"Ah, yes." Cedric lamented. "I hope the Council comes to their senses soon. I say the wizarding world needs to be part of our society as soon as possible."

At that, Theo's gaze turned bright and curious. His darkened eyes no longer lingered on Daphne, but instead regarded Cedric with a renewed interest. "Really? You are for Hermione's act?"

"Oh, without question." Cedric nodded.

Then, the two of them got into a heated conversation on the politics involved with the intermingling of the two kingdoms should the act pass next month, and Daphne, having no reference of either kingdom's government to comment, excused herself and glided across the room.

"Where's Harry?" She asked Pansy, sipping idly at her champagne.

Pansy didn't hesitate reply. She was, per usual, wearing her most flattering noblewoman's smile and greeting several people as they moved past her toward the dancefloor.

"Why should I know?" She hissed through her teeth. "Or care."

"Pans," Daphne reprimanded, then paused to greet the newlyweds – "Lord Jordan, Lady Johnson," – "We both know that you do, so stop trying to deny it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Daphne." She chirped – "So sorry we couldn't make it to the wedding! Did you enjoy the French tea set we sent in our place?" – "Even if I did, this is hardly the time and place to discuss such a topic."

Then, in a flurry of pale blue silk, Pansy twirled away to dance with the sullen Marcus Flint whom may or may not realize he was just a pawn in her game. Daphne sighed.

"I like him," came the very voice that haunted her as much as it enchanted her.

"Hm?"

"Your someone," Theo remarked. "I didn't think I would like him, in fact I expected not to. But I do like him, which makes how I feel about you that much more difficult."

She blinked up at him, noting how beautiful he was in his dress robes. It wasn't just his impeccable taste, of course, but the way he seemed so relaxed in them, in her presence. With a blush of recognition, Daphne realized that she was talking to her version of Theo and was delighted.

"Don't worry," he went on politely. "I don't get expect you to do or say anything about it. Now that I've met him, I can see why you want nothing to do with me."

"Theo," she began.

"No, no. Spare me the pain, Greengrass, and let's not say anything more about it, ok? I'd rather just wallow in my pity by myself and pretend to hate you." He said.

She noticed the way his shoulders tensed as he continued to talk to her, the way his knuckles flushed white as they tightened on his glass of what appeared to be whiskey. Daphne knew it was only a matter of time before she lost sight of her Theo and saw him replaced with the one that he wore as a mask whenever he needed to keep her at a distance. It broke her heart to think about it.

With a formal nod, he slipped away and disappeared behind one of the flaps of the enormous array of white tents constructed to house the outdoor party. She caught sight of Cedric's amber hair in the distance but suddenly it all felt very despondent to Daphne, the prospect of returning to his side.

It wasn't as if she and Cedric were incompatible, they got along extremely well actually, and even if it _was_ a shame that he wasn't titled or wealthy, it appeared that it was something her parents were willing to overlook (she suspected it had more to do with them fervently hoping Hermione would intervene and award him lands and titles rather than them being kinder at heart).

Daphne even thought, after all this time, that she may be happy to marry Cedric.

But then, cruel and impossible to ignore, Theo Nott would plague her thoughts.

With a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, Daphne ducked behind the flap and followed her fair-haired, blue-eyed nightmare into the unknown.

"Theo," she called out.

Daphne squinted, her eyesight struggling with the dim lighting of the sunset. She stepped cautiously forward, scanning the area and biting her lip when she saw no signs of him.

"_Fuck_," she swore under her breath after stepping in a sodden patch of earth, ruining her shoes and the hem of her skirts.

"I didn't know you had such a dirty mouth," Theo chided playfully, appearing out of thin air.

"Don't let Pansy know," she replied coolly.

"Here, let me fix that for you." He said, motioning to her rosy pink gown covered in mud. He produced a wand from within the lining of his coat and flicked it at her feet. "There," he pronounced proudly.

"Thank you," Daphne said, marveling at how the dirt no only vanished, but also appeared to repel from her with further steps.

"What are you doing out here by yourself?" Theo asked, sidling up beside her in a glorious wave of cedar and smoke.

"You came out here by yourself," she noted. He gave her a look of _You know what I meant,_ and she sighed, feeling utterly helpless to him given his proximity to her. The heat of his skin practically close enough that she could feel the electricity buzzing in her arm, begging her to reach out and touch him. "I came out here looking for you."

"Why?"

"You told me once to let you know when I knew what I wanted," she replied.

His eyes darkened, shoulders tensed, and breath hitched.

"What is it that you want?"

She stepped towards him, her voice quiet, "You."

She reached out to touch him, taking one of his hands in hers, but he pulled away. Theo blinked several times, looking as if he was fighting some internal war based on the way he looked longingly at her versus the attempt to put distance between them.

He inhaled sharply, "Daphne… I can't believe I'm saying this but, what about your someone – that Diggory fellow inside?"

"He's not my someone, Theo. You are."

"That's not fair. I told you I can't be around you and just be friends."

She took his hand in hers, and this time he didn't pull away. "I don't want to be friends."

"What about Diggory?" He repeated.

"I'll break it off with him," she supplied bluntly. It wasn't something she had decided lightly, of course, but the point remained that while if she still courted him or whatever it was that she was doing, then she would be doing him a disservice.

"What?" Theo asked. "Now?"

"Sure, if that's what you want. If it matters to you," she replied, brushing his knuckles with her thumb.

He sighed, shaking his head. In that moment, she could see that his internal war had been decided, and that whichever side had been fighting for her had won. "No. I don't care. I don't care that you're here with him. In fact," he laughed. "I don't think I care that you're with him at all."

His fingers intertwined with hers, gripping them tightly, while his other hand lifted to cup her cheek and tilt her face up towards him, "It's been too long."

She could not agree more.

From the first time they met, when they danced around each other narrowly avoiding the sparks that flew between them and the inexplicable feeling that they were endgame, she had wanted to know what Theo Nott tasted like.

His lips were everything she imagined them to be.

They were soft but firm; inviting but rough; sweet but undeniably bad for her health. They were everything he was to her, and more. Daphne succumbed to his touch quickly. The way he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her slightly off the ground to bring her against his chest. The beating of his heart was thunderous, echoing hers as his tongue slid against her bottom lip, asking permission.

She granted it.

Daphne had told herself over the past month that she wouldn't lose control, that she wouldn't let her emotions get the best of her and that she _especially_ wouldn't let Theo Nott make her head spin like he had done last time.

Now, though, she wished she'd lost control a lot sooner.

Her hand snaked around to hold onto his neck, and she dug her fingers into the loose tussles of his hair, yanking on them as his mouth dipped below her jaw.

"I thought you only wanted to be friends," he chuckled against her pulse.

"I lied," she gasped.

He may make her a liar among many other things, but she could live with it. In fact, she rather liked it. He brought about a fire in her she didn't know she had.

Theo may have been a bit rough with his kisses and his groping, but he was polite enough not to push her any further, though if he continued to do that thing with his tongue she imagined he would have had her begging him for more in a matter of minutes.

. . .

_7 May 1456_

_7:08 pm_

Similarly, to the last ball Draco threw in honor of Hermione, he barely spent any time alone with her due to the overwhelming presence of guests, magical and muggle alike, who wanted to talk with her and just be near her.

He understood.

He also wanted to spend as long as he possibly could listening to the way she spoke of her favorite poets, argued her political standpoints, made witty jokes about her trusted advisors, and laughed so melodically whenever anyone mentioned flying.

When they had been comfortably secluded, leaving Daphne and Cedric to Theo's nonsensical prose, he leaned in close to her ear and nipped at the bottom of her jaw.

"As flattered as I am that many of your people have taken to me," Draco murmured. "I have to admit I am growing a bit tired of playing the sweet and innocent king in waiting."

She slid him a darkened look, her rosy lips pulling into a mischievous smirk. "Then don't be," she said. "Play the dark and mysterious king with no qualms for antiquated muggle courting customs."

His heart raced. Draco snapped his eyes up to survey the room, noticing Theo had angled himself away from the lone Diggory lad and was heading toward his better counterpart across the venue. He stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

"Buy me a couple of hours, will you?"

Theo's gaze flickered between Draco and Hermione, then nodded. "I'll get Blaise to create some sort of distraction." He winked at Hermione. "Little Queen,"

Draco cleared his throat, chiming in again before the two of them continued down one of their flirtatious banters. "Suggest that he employ Lady Lovegood as well. That should be sufficient enough to earn us a few hours of privacy."

Theo scoffed, "One can hope. The usual warning then, for when your time is up?"

"Yes." Draco mused. "That will be fine. Thank you,"

"Of course, Your Mischievous-Highness," he said with a swooping bow before leaving them.

Draco turned to Hermione, interlacing their fingers, and led her toward one of the exits, "Let's go,"

Hermione, whom he expected to ask a million questions or pose a logical protest to slipping away from the watchful eyes of her advisors, followed silently.

Behind them, a booming explosion of lights and powder erupted in the middle of the dance floor, followed by the telltale signs of magical entertainment and general trickery.

Hermione let out a peel of laughter, shooting him a beatific smile.

An hour later, after he'd apparated them to his bedchambers in the Manor, they were much, _much_ more productive than they had been the entirety of the celebratory party.

Draco's hands entangled themselves in her hair, tugging it lightly to expose her neck to his lips. "I can't wait to spend every day with you," he murmured between kisses. "And every night."

She sighed in content, her fingers trailing down his bare chest to the waistband of his trousers. "Really?"

Her hand slipped under, taking his length in her hands. From all of the subtle touches and suggestive words they'd exchanged throughout the evening, Draco was throbbing against her touch. He willed himself to think of something else besides her capable hands in order to last.

"Of course," he choked out. "Is it so unbelievable that I would want that?"

Her other hand had dragged his trousers past his hips so that they fell around his ankles, and he swiftly kicked them away. "No," she admitted, adjusting her grip on his dick. "I've always been sure I wanted the exact same thing with you… I suppose I just never wanted to let myself get carried away with imagining a life with you because I didn't think it would be attainable."

He pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it around before lowering his mouth to her exposed breast, enjoying how it spilled artfully out of her bodice and gown.

"I understand that," he murmured against her, flicking his tongue across her nipple and enjoying the sharp inhale she gave in response to the motion. "But there's nothing more to worry about anymore. It'll be just you and me now… I promise."

She quickened her pace on him, her palm rubbing relentlessly against his throbbing cock with the soft pad of her thumb occasionally flicking over the tip. He bit back a low growl of pleasure, finding himself losing control over his more primal urges.

"I can't… You know," she said as he lifted his face to meet her eyes, dilated and enlarged like that of a doe. "I still can't – It can be you and me _just _yet – I mean - "

"Hey," he said, cutting her off with a sweet kiss. "Don't worry about that. Don't even think about it. Of course, we'll wait. I understand. I actually…" Her hand was mercilessly continuing its tirade while her other hand began to massage below. Draco immediately bit back his thoughts as he felt himself tense up.

He wasn't sure how she knew – or whether she even planned it – but her timing was impeccable because as quickly as she'd dropped to her knees and taken his full length in her pretty little mouth, nearly choking on him, he came. He came so hard.

Draco felt the weight of his orgasm subside, bringing him back to reality from near-delirium and blinked down at her. Hermione sat back, in a pool of rich, enchanted skirts, and dragged her thumb across her lower lip as she smiled sweetly up at him.

Like she had no idea.

Like she had no idea what she had just done to him – no idea the _effect_ she had on him.

Her sitting prim and proper at his feet while looking up at him with those doe eyes as if she hadn't just literally delivered him to an earth-shattering state of ecstasy.

"You," he scoffed, shaking his head. "You are something else, Hermione Granger, and I love you."

"You're just saying that as some form of post-orgasm adoration," she teased, taking his proffered hand and standing up again.

"Not at all," he informed her politely, then smirked mischievously. He nodded behind her to the four-poster bed. "Sit."

She sat.

He looked at her, really looked at her, and couldn't help but feel blessed for having her in his life.

She was just so fucking beautiful.

She was beautiful when she smiled politely and tried to listen, for his sake, to whatever nonsense Dumbledore was spewing; she was beautiful when she engaged in Theo's wilder ideas and hypotheticals; she was beautiful when she was wind-swept and teary-eyed and holding him so tight he thought he might die if he never felt her touch again, and she was beautiful like this: perched on the edge of the mattress, hair tousled from his hands winding through it, lips swollen from his teeth tugging at them, and face flushed from the exertion of their intimacy.

He loved it.

He loved _her_.

"Hermione," he breathed.

Then he strode over to her and cupped her face in his hands and tried to spell all of his thoughts and emotions out for her. He said it when he kissed her until his head spun from lack of air. He said it when he gently pushed her back onto the bed and lifted her many skirts. He said it when he ducked his head beneath them, pleasuring her with his mouth (careful not to ruin her virtue by way of fingering or what else) until she was screaming how much she loved him too.

She said it in sharp gasps and breathless pleads. She said it by digging her heel into his back as she climaxed. She said it by dragging his face back up to meet hers and kissing him, tasting her saltiness on his lips.

They lay there, tangled in another's arms, catching their breath, with his cheek pressed against her warm breasts and her dainty fingers trailing through his silvery hair.

"I suppose we have to go back to the party now, don't we?" She asked.

He shifted to meet her eye, resting on his chin. "We don't _have_ to, per se, but it is probably for the best. If there is any hope of my still winning over your people, I don't think them finding out about our little trysts will help."

She shook her head, laughing. "They adore you; you know. You saved me, you saved them, and you brought magic – literal magic – back into their lives. Other than the Council, there's not many people who openly despise, or even oppose, wizards and witches."

"Hm," he mused. "That's good to know."

He sat up, and she followed suit. He waved his wand, casting an incantation over them both to restore them to their proper appearance, bearing in mind that they would be closely studied upon their arrival (though he feverishly hoped Blaise and Luna had been enormously successful in diverting attention away from them for so long).

"Here," he said, moving to shift her diadem so that it rested more evenly atop her loose, wild curls. "Let me get that,"

There was a flash of blinding light behind Draco's eyelids, sending him flying backwards on the floor as he tried to blink past the images that he saw: a young girl with raven-black hair, a young boy chasing her, the diadem sitting atop a dresser in the room, and finally the girl screaming as she collapsed to the floor following a green streak of light.

Draco woke in a sweat with Hermione hovering over him, her eyes wide with concern.

"Draco! Are you alright?" She asked, her eyes searching his face frantically for any indication of injury.

"I'm fine," he said. Wincing as he stood, he squinted at the silver diadem atop her head, its intricately wielded metal a perfect replica of the one in his vision, sapphires and diamonds and all. "We have to go back to the party," he stated, taking her hand and apparating them both straight there.

He ducked under the flap, guiding her in through one of the side entrances so that they would not be noticed reentering the celebration.

"Draco," Hermione panted, following behind him in smaller strides, probably out of breath from trying to keep up with his brisk pace. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"Yes," he told her. "I need to find Theo, and Blaise, too."

After rounding the two of them up, he sighed and launched into what he saw after touching the diadem. "And now," he ended. "I can, I don't know, _feel _it."

"Feel it?" Blaise grimaced.

"Like a sixth sense?" Theo guessed, and Draco nodded vigorously.

"What?" Hermione gaped, glancing nervously among them. "What does this mean? Why can you _feel_ my crown? How can you? Is this a normal wizard thing?"

"What – Like talking to snakes?" Theo directed at her dubiously. When she looked as if she wanted to question even that, he added, "Parseltongue. Talking to snakes. That's actually a wizard trait, though an incredibly rare one."

"Then, yes," she ventured, "I suppose like that."

"Oh…" Theo scoffed. "No. This is different. This is… bad."

"Dangerous," Blaise added.

"Not helping," Draco growled at the two of them. Then, he turned to Hermione who seemed, rightfully, shaken up. "It's fine. I'm fine… It's just some dark magic we're learning about."

"It's not fine," Blaise snapped at Draco. "Don't lie to her. She can handle it."

At Blaise's vote of confidence, Hermione pursed her lips together and put on a brave face, nodding first at Theo and Blaise, and then at him. "Yeah, I can handle it. Tell me."

"Well…" Draco trailed off, not sure where to start. Luckily, it appeared as though Theo had been waiting precisely for that opportunity.

"It has to do with Riddle," Theo supplied. "After he was gone, or whatever, Draco started behaving a bit strangely. At first, we didn't think the two were related, but then we unhelpfully remembered that our dear prince here had gone and gambled his soul away to this madman."

"Theo," Draco warned.

"Anyway," Theo went on, ignoring his friend. "We discovered that Riddle was fiddling around with this piece of dark magic that is _especially_ horrific. It's known as a horcrux."

"A horcrux?" Hermione asked.

Theo nodded, and for a moment Draco wondered if he had paused on purpose, for dramatic effect, to allow for her predicted question. "A horcrux," he continued, "is an object formed by dark magic that is used by a wizard in order to split their soul, thus enabling them to achieve immortality."

Hermione swallowed, "So, if they die but a piece of their soul lives in another object, then they can potentially come back to life?"

"Precisely." Draco confirmed for her.

"And you think Riddle did this?" She pressed. "Split his soul?"

"Well, we weren't sure, exactly… Not at first." Blaise commented. "But then, Draco had a reaction to Riddle's snake that was similar to what he just experienced, and we thought – that has to be it."

"So…" Hermione said, putting the pieces together. Her hand rose shakily to her head. "My diadem - "

"Is a horcrux."

"Oh," she bit her lip. After a minute of silence between them, she chimed up again. "Are there others?"

"Well," Draco sighed. "As Theo mentioned, there was the snake …"

"The diary," she gasped. "Riddle's diary. The one I destroyed with the sword that made him vanish in the first place. That's why his body wasn't affected by anything else, because he was _corporeal_. His soul needed to be destroyed, and it lived in the book."

"That would certainly explain it," Theo nodded.

Hermione, quick-witted as she was, had already realized the terrible implications of this discovery of theirs. "Riddle won't be truly gone unless…"

"We destroy all of his horcruxes." Draco finished.

Hermione chewed on her lip and shifted back and forth. "How many are there… in total?"

"We don't know," Theo confessed, sliding her a sorrowful frown.

"Which is disheartening, to say the least." Blaise huffed.

"Fuck," Draco groaned.

. . .

**A/N - **Hi there, just wanted to make a few announcements.

**1.** I may be slowing down the posting schedule so if a new chapter is not posted every week, then expect to see one every other week. This is due to travels, familial obligations, and general hecticness of the holiday season.

**2.** Thank you to everyone who has recently joined, been here from the beginning, and so on! I truly appreciate every little follow, favorite, and review I receive from you all. You're the best.

**3.** I am starting a new WIP thanks to the overwhelming (thank you!) requests I've received for one of the one-shots I wrote in my _Only Everything_ collection. So, the first chapter will be posted today and the second chapter tomorrow for those of you who have already read the one shot. Here is a summary of what the fic will be about (Titled: _The Art of Betrayal_):

Enigmatic gang leader Draco Malfoy is cunning and cut-throat, but with the local authorities in his back pocket he is virtually untouchable. Newly minted secret agent Hermione Granger is tasked with going deep undercover and infiltrating the gang. M for violence, language. Darkish Dramione. 1920s Muggle AU.

It is (loosely) influenced by Peaky Blinders as well as Great Gatsby but is not intended to be directly based on either and no previous knowledge or experience on either of them is necessary. It is intended to be quite a dark read so please be advised there will be violence, language, etc.


	12. The Sorting

. . .

_**Chapter 12 – The Sorting**_

. . .

_13 June 1456_

_8:34 am_

Hermione hadn't gotten any sleep last night.

There were too many concerns floating around the forefront of her mind and every time she tried to close her eyes and force herself into dreamless, necessary sleep, her brain sparked and buzzed with worry.

Some aspects, were of course, out of her hand, and therefore she tried to focus on the little fire that she had some control in defusing. Firstly, would be the upheaval and complete rearrangement of the Great Hall.

Four long tables spanning the entire length of the room were brought in and set up for the incoming wizards and witches who accepted the muggle queen's invitation to the event of the century. That event would be the Sorting Ceremony.

It was the first large gathering of muggles that would be subject to the magical powers of the Sorting Hat (in the past the children of those in the muggle kingdom who showed signs of magic were taken to the Hat to be sorted and given the option to pursue their magical destiny, however, it has been nearly a century since the intermingling of the kingdoms and thus there was no telling what happened to those bloodlines of who among them now had magical blood). The Sorting Hat would determine _if_ any of them were of magical blood, and then of _which_ magical blood they possessed.

The Sorting Hat was sentient and could detect nascent qualities in order to place an apparent witch or wizard in the House that would challenge them and put their character to test, but it was said (from what Draco told to Hermione during one of her many questionnaire sessions prior to that day) to take the person's wishes into account.

Draco was explicit while describing the Sorting to Hermione that simply because someone was placed in one House that it did not mean that they could not display characteristics of other Houses.

Each House was a separate entity within the magical kingdom over which Draco now ruled; the House of Gryffindor existed in the grasslands on the western side of Hermione's kingdom and the House of Hufflepuff in an island just off the northern shore of her kingdom, the House of Ravenclaw situated in the mountain range to the eastern edge, and the House of Slytherin to the immediate south of her palace.

There were some rivalries between the four Houses, which is to be expected with their sorting being due to character qualities, however they were united in that they each recognized that every House had their virtues and flaws and that their monarchy and government were responsible for keeping them all in check.

The monarchy had been held by Draco's family, the royal House of Malfoy, while the Ministry – their government and version of her Council – were made up of any and all members of the four Houses with the coveted position of Minister of Magic rotating between the four Houses. It currently was held by Albus Dumbledore, a Gryffindor.

Hermione had spent several sleepless nights leading up to this day thinking of the four Houses and which she might imagine herself in should she prove to be of magical blood after all.

Would she be sorted into Hufflepuff because she reflected their hard work and dedication in her daily duties as queen of a thriving kingdom? It was unlikely seeing as, from what Draco told her of his connections in the House of Hufflepuff, Hermione did not think herself kind enough. It was a sad realization, and perhaps a terrible one for the leader of a nation, but Hermione was remarkably self-aware, and thus did not find this outcome likely.

Would she be sorted into Slytherin because she mirrored Draco in his ambition and resourcefulness? Hermione believed her Amalgam Act alone would be a winning point toward this outcome, but then she thought of how even Draco had warned her that her being sorted into Slytherin was probably an unlikely outcome. He had told her that he didn't mean it personally and that it was more of a compliment in that he didn't believe her to be cunning enough for his House. Fair enough, she'd thought.

Would she be sorted into Ravenclaw because she valued their intelligence and wit and spent most of her time as queen trying to make sure every decision that she made was backed up by plenty of research? Her countless hours spent in her extensive library with Crookshanks curled in her lap would prove this outcome likely, but she secretly hoped she fit into an entirely different House.

Hermione wanted more than anything to be sorted into the House of Gryffindor. Its reputation of receiving the bold and the brave and the chivalrous of all the wizards and witches was impressive and Hermione wanted it. She wanted to embody its passion and its fire and – hell, they're House colors were even the same as those of the royal House of Granger.

There was a soft cough, a clearing of one's throat, sounding on her left and immediately Hermione woke from her internal reverie. Daphne took the gold platter from her hands and set it down on the table – this particular one was for the Gryffindor guests (Hermione had ordered that each table be decorated in their House colors to make them feel more welcome in a strange, muggle palace) – and Hermione smiled absently at her friend.

"Thank you," she murmured when Minerva was out of ear shot. "How are you feeling?"

"Nervous," Daphne replied with a choking laugh. "How about you?"

Hermione exhaled sharply and shook her head at the marvelously decorated room. It had taken all morning and even though she'd been scolded for helping the staff, she had done so anyway as a way to give her anxious hands something to do to help kill the time.

"It'll be alright," Daphne reassured her.

"I know. I mostly just want it to be over with now."

Daphne sighed, "Me too."

"Your Majesty," Minerva greeted especially formally, paired with a solemn nod. "It's time to welcome the guests and the courtiers. You must take your place at your throne now."

"Yes. Very well."

The courtiers filed in first and took their seats at the undecorated tables along the walls. Since this ceremony was against typical royal decorum, Pansy and Daphne were among those in her kingdom who had volunteered to partake; they were easily identifiable to Hermione and she gave them a quick smile as they took their seats. Harry sauntered in towards the back of the group of her people, but he was called over by Daphne with a gentle smile and had no choice but to take the saved seat beside her; Hermione frowned inwardly at his cold shoulder to Pansy.

Once everyone who had volunteered to attend the Sorting Ceremony – including her entire Council and anybody living in the palace as dictated by a clause in her Amalgam Act – then the wizarding kingdom guests began to enter the Great Hall.

In the front of their assembly was Draco; he stood tall and regal with his finest golden vest shining as brilliantly as his hair and the unmistakably massive crown atop his head. She beamed at him and he smiled back. They were both thrilled to be involved in the day's festivities as much as they were delighted to spend time together in public view. It only helped her case that he was a benevolent and charming king, worthy of wedding their beloved queen.

He strode up to the dais confidently and Hermione rose from her throne to greet him. She offered him her hand, which he dutifully knelt to kiss. "Your Majesty," he breathed.

Hermione nodded formally with a small smile lingering on her lips. "Your Majesty," she returned. His eyes shifted to the silver diadem gleaming from her between her curls; he'd dutifully replaced the one he'd destroyed that contained dark magic with an exact replica so that no one would notice the difference.

When he stood and let go of her hand, she quickly tightened her grip and beckoned him to follow her up onto the dais.

"What are you doing?" He whispered, eyes darting nervously around at her people watching their interaction like a hawk.

"I would like you to sit beside me during the ceremony," she dimpled. "If that is alright with Your Majesty?"

He blinked, "Yes, of course, but I thought - "

"My Council has no say in the events that take place in this room as of today. It is per an addendum of the act, and if I should choose to take that opportunity to showcase the King of Magic and spend the day conversing with him as my people realize their fate, then so be it."

She met his eye as they stood before the two thrones of her kingdom, one fit for a queen and the other for a king.

"Really?" He asked, eying the throne to her right.

"Really," she assured him, taking her own seat and gesturing for him to follow. When he did, she smiled outwardly so that everyone in the room could see how happy she was. "If what you said it true about the sorting process, then it is inevitable that we will share the dais like this in the future. Everyone might as well get used to seeing both of us on the thrones together."

He laughed, beaming at her. "I wish I could kiss you right now."

She flushed, averting her gaze briefly. "Me too," then she cleared her throat. "Can you explain the – the err – Commandments, again?"

He nodded. "Of course,"

Hermione noticed out of the corner of her eye that the rest of the wizards and witches that would be attending to welcome their new Housemates take their respective seats at their tables, but her then her focus shifted back to Draco. As it always did.

"According to _Mary's First Commandment of Magic, _there is a chance that half of the people in your kingdom will have magical blood, and then following _Mary's Second Commandment of Magic_, the distribution will be relatively even among the Houses." Draco told her.

"Interesting," Hermione mused.

"Hm," Draco agreed; there was a sparkle in his eyes as the silver hue caught a ray of sunlight shining in. "Very."

Part of the Amalgam Act that Hermione had to redefine once the Sorting Ceremony had been introduced – it had been brought to her attention by Draco and his Minister as their only demand for the joining of the two kingdoms – was the order in which the Sorting would happen.

Her Council decided (whether it was for their own avoidance or genuine concern) that the Sorting should begin with the lower class and work its way up the stature hierarchy. At first, Hermione felt affronted that she would have to go last according to their rule, but then Draco had pointed out two very important facts which eased her mind.

Mainly in that her status as queen and the leader of her people and great nation would hold a massive influence over her people's opinion on the Sorting.

If she were to go early on and it be decided that she was _not_ magic, then her Council and any members strictly against uniting the kingdoms would end up rallying against the rest of the ceremony in so-called support of their queen. If it were decided that she was magic early on, likely it would sway her people into strongly supporting just that House and so on.

Conversely, if she were to go early on and it be decided that she _was_ magic, then her people would immediately discuss her and her apparent House and nothing else. The entire Sorting Ceremony would likely be in upheaval and any other decisions made by the Hat would not be given the respect and attention they deserved.

"It's a sound rule," Draco had summarized, rarely supporting her Council's decision on something. "I don't think they thought of either of those outcomes when they presented it to you, but nonetheless…"

She'd laughed and given in, sagging into his arms in their hideaway in his Manor at the time. Now, staring at the hoard of people in her Great Hall, Hermione wished for nothing more than to curl up in his strong arms and run her hands through his silky hair.

But, alas, that was not on the schedule for today.

Hermione stood to address the occupants, both wizarding and non-wizarding, in a welcome speech and short explanation of what was to come during the Sorting Ceremony. She told them what was going to be asked of them and what their possible outcomes would be. Before taking her seat again, she introduced the Minister of Magic, Albus Dumbledore, and the Sorting Hat itself.

Then, it began.

The first person to step up to the stool and have the Sorting Hat placed on their head was none other than Pansy's handmaiden, Millie. Hermione pondered if her being the first among the lower class to go was a result of Pansy bullying her or if she volunteered on her own volition. Either way, the Hat sat on her head for approximately two minutes – seemingly in discussion with her thought no one else could hear anything – and then it boasted, "SLYTHERIN,"

There was applause from the Slytherin table as well as from Draco; he slid Hermione a gentle smirk over the newest recruit of his own House.

The next person to take sit was also declared a Slytherin.

"I feel like you're entirely too smug," Hermione noted. "Are you absolutely sure this Sorting is going to be evenly split? It seems particularly one-sided so far."

Draco arched a single silver brow at her, "Oh, is that so? I'm entirely certain of the magical laws of the universe, Your Majesty," he mocked. "But if you're doubting my expertise, then perhaps you are willing to put your money where your mouth is?"

She frowned, "I thought you said our gold was useless to you?"

"Hm, yes, we _do_ use different currency, but I didn't mean that literally." His lips twitched upwards slightly. "I meant would you be willing to bet on the outcome – the even distribution of your people among the Houses?"

Hermione scoffed and averted her gaze, but then she felt a competitive spark ignite in her and she abruptly turned to him. "You know what, _Your Majesty_? Perhaps, I would like to bet."

The Sorting Hat is placed on one of the lower courtiers, Hannah Abbott, and after a moment to consider, booms, "MUGGLE,"

"Wonderful," Draco remarked. "If I win – which I will, my love – then I request you seriously consider learning to ride a broom."

"That's barbaric," Hermione sharply inhaled. "You know how I loathe that thing."

"Hm, well, all is fair in love and war as they say," he shrugged. "If you're too scared to do it, then we can just call off the bet and - "

"One week." She said, cutting him off.

"What?" He asked, swiveling back around from the Sorting Ceremony to face her.

By then, the Sorting has moved on to the higher-ranking people of Hermione's kingdom, and at the current moment of their bickering, a famous author perches on the stool; he crosses his legs in a dramatic flair and wears an incredibly charming smile.

The Hat, however, is barely placed atop his perfectly waved auburn hair before it shouts out, "MUGGLE,"

"One week," Hermione repeats. "I want you to go without your precious magic for one week and live like us muggles. _When_ I win the bet, that is,"

He shook his head and responds in a hushed tone, "I'm the literal _King of Magic_, Hermione, I can't very well go without using it for an entire week. That's ridiculous."

"Well," she dimpled triumphantly, "If you're afraid, Draco, then maybe you would like to reconsider the bet?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at her, "Never." His face turned back towards the Hat – it sat atop Susan Bones' head and pronounced her, "HUFFLEPUFF," – as he tried to hide a grimace from her.

Hermione laughed at his discontent and slid her gaze away from him.

. . .

_13 June 1456_

_11:41 am_

Daphne hid her hands beneath a decorative handkerchief in her lap so that Pansy wouldn't scold her outright for nervously twiddling her fingers. She had already hissed in her ear not to let her anxiety show in case the rest of the courtiers decided to use their apprehensiveness as a tactic against Hermione's decision to implicate the Sorting Ceremony.

Still.

She _was_ anxious about it and therefore it was near impossible to school her habits in submission. How Pansy managed to do it for endless hours of endless days under constant watch was truly remarkable.

Daphne, not being a titled lady despite being one of the queen's ladies, would take the Sorting long before Lady Four-Names beside her. She and Minerva were two of the most recognizable faces in the palace, but they were still not officially noble and thus would be soon to be called to the Sorting Hat.

It would be a matter of time since Cedric was up next.

"Good luck," she murmured to him, squeezing his hand tightly and giving him a reassuring smile.

"You too," Cedric whispered. "See you on the other side,"

He returned the grin readily and a pang in her chest rudely reminded her how much she did not deserve his affection and kindness. He had no idea how terribly she wronged him. She had not told him of her kiss with Theo – for obvious reasons – and although she'd told Theo that she would break things off with Cedric, she had not quite figured out how to do it yet.

Was there ever a good time for that sort of thing?

The 'we need to talk' conversation was one of the worst, she thought. For both ends, arguably, but most definitely for the recipient. Poor Cedric.

Daphne wished that she could care for him or, at the very least, see herself growing to care for him. But she didn't. Ever since Theo bloody Nott came into her life, it was like her entire world revolved around him and seeing him again and making him smile and kissing his stupidly perfect lips.

She watched Cedric sit on the stool; his expression was blank as the Hat was placed on his head, but Daphne could see his nervous tick in action. His hands were always his giveaway for how he was feeling.

Whenever he was relaxed, usually on their long walks around the castle grounds, they would be clasped loosely behind his back. Whenever he was feeling affectionate, they would be flexed on his thigh, gripping it slightly to refrain from touching her in public (as they were still not technically courting each other or engaged). Whenever he was lost in thought, usually when he was attending his horses, his fingers would tap in perfect harmony to one of his favorite symphonies.

At the moment they were clenching and unclenching repeatedly at his side, which meant that he was especially tense – worried without a doubt.

The Hat finally spoke up for the entirety of the Great Hall to hear. It bellowed, "HUFFLEPUFF," and Cedric immediately beamed as he dismounted and traipsed off to the table closest to Daphne.

He met her eye and winked, which she thought was remarkably out of character for his usually – and at times vexing – polite personality.

Daphne didn't have time to address that particular interaction though because the Minister of Magic was calling out her name next.

She glided across the Great Hall in her beautiful baby blue summer dress to sit on the stool. Her hair, falling in large blonde waves down her back – unlike her usual updo – had been left down to accommodate the Hat currently being placed on her head.

_Hello_, it said in her head.

Daphne's eyes bulged at the magic of the hat, then she felt it chuckle at her with the sound of its amusement bouncing around inside her head.

_You can speak to me, you know, and no one else will hear it. Part of the magic._

"Oh," she remarked in quiet astonishment. "That's marvelous."

_If you say so… Well…?_

"I don't know," Daphne sighed. "I haven't thought about it much really. I mean I suppose I don't think it really matters anymore seeing as both of the men in my life are magical so either way it won't affect me too much."

_Hm…_

"It's not as if my parents will approve of either." She sighed again. Then lamented, "If I _were_ magic that would solve my problem but then I'm not entirely sure which House I would even fit into. Then there's my sister and parents to think of… where would they be Sorted if they're also magical? It's all just… a lot."

_Naturally… _

"Well?" She pressed, ready to get it over with. Whatever the outcome, she would be fine. It would be fine. Everything would be fine – or, at least, no worse than it currently was.

"WELL," the Sorting Hat said aloud and with a deeply resonating voice. "MUGGLE,"

Daphne stepped off the stool, painted a polite smile on her face and returned to her seat between Harry and Pansy. She vehemently avoided Cedric's glances and instead turned to Harry and Pansy with a tight-lipped and very strained expression of gratitude.

"I'm happy," she told them unconvincingly. "Really. I don't think I would have been well suited for magic so it's nice to know I won't have to relearn how to be a proper lady in their terms."

"Mhm," Pansy noted with narrowed eyes.

Daphne had noticed she and Harry had been fervently avoiding looking at each other and had painstakingly failed at conjuring small talk between the three of them during the Ceremony.

Harry, conversely, openly looked at her with pity. It was exactly the same look she'd been trying to avoid from Cedric and something in her snapped; the entire dam she'd tried to maintain since receiving her sentence broke open and flooded anew.

Whatever had happened between Harry and Pansy was not her responsibility to fix so Daphne felt no remorse at leaving them alone as she excused herself.

Daphne strode out of the Great Hall and fled toward the nearest exit in the east wing; she stopped to catch her breath by the green houses and decided to go in and let the scent of fresh roses and gardenias soothe her.

. . .

_13 June 1456_

_11:53 am_

Theo watched from the farthest end of the Slytherin table as each person went through the Sorting Ceremony, but he only had eyes for one and by the time it was her turn he could hardly sit still. His legs shook uncontrollably underneath the table to the point where Blaise turned to him with his most reprimanding expression and expressly told him to, "Stop bloody fidgeting Nott or I swear I will cast an _immobolus_ on you."

"Can't help it," he muttered in response.

"You're a wizard," Blaise replied. "Find a way to help it."

Then Blaise turned his attention back to the front of the Great Hall as did Theo. His eyes never left her tall, slim form as she made her way up to the stool and nodded along to what the raggedy old hat was saying to her.

He tapped his fingers repeatedly against the wood table and avoided Blaise's exasperated and dramatic sighs as he did so. The Hat declared her a muggle and he felt his heart sink as she gracefully returned to her original seat.

Bloody hell.

Theo had hoped, _dreamed_, that Miss Daphne Greengrass would be of magical blood so that way she would have no conceivable reason not to let him court her or whatever it was the muggles did these days. He didn't keep up with their outdated social customs. So very 11th century of them.

He was so caught up in reimagining his dream of their future with her as a muggle instead of a witch that he almost caught her slipping out of the Hall in a rush. Theo stayed just long enough to hear Minerva McGonagall – or Minnie as he preferred when they were bantering about nonsense together – declared a muggle as well before he slid out of his seat at the end of the bench and ran after Daphne.

There was a flash of gold as her figure ducked into one of the enormous greenhouses and he swiftly followed; there were bushes upon bushes of flowers in this one, and he could make out a large willow tree growing in the center of the greenhouse that created a large canopy over most of the glass building.

She was sitting at the bottom of the tree, her skirts at high-risk for getting all dirty though he suspected that was probably the last thing on her mind at the moment.

"Hey," Theo said cautiously as he came up to her.

Daphne blinked up at him, "Theo?"

"How are you?" He asked, gingerly taking a seat on the small grass mound surrounding the tree trunk. "I take it you didn't want to be a muggle?"

"No," she replied. "That's not it." Then after a breath, she added, "You didn't want me to be a muggle, did you? I bet you would have liked to see the Sorting Hat place me in Slytherin."

He shrugged, "Personally, I think you would have made a great match for Slytherin." Better, he thought, to admit that small truth rather than tell her he _had_ rather hoped she would be a witch and not a muggle. She was – as he was learning – incredibly sensitive to his opinions of her.

"I don't think so," she scoffed.

"Why not?" He countered. "You're exceptionally resourceful, just think about Hermione's coronation gown. Then, there's the millions of other times you dressed her perfectly. Not to mention your ambition to marry well."

He had meant all of it genuinely, though if he were being honest that last part was a not-so-subtle reminder that she still could accomplish that goal if she were to say… oh, he didn't know… marry him?

Daphne shook her head at him, a small frown forming on her lips. "I hardly think dressing Hermione is qualifying enough to be placed in Slytherin, and besides, it's my parents who are ambitious. My sister, too. If anyone were to be placed in Slytherin it would be them. As it were, none of us are magical so…"

"Well, it doesn't matter," Theo stated. "Slytherin is missing out, but just because you're not a witch doesn't mean you don't possess any of the traits of the Houses."

She shrugged wordlessly.

Theo went on, "I just want you to know, Miss Daphne Greengrass, that it doesn't matter if you have titles or magical blood or whatever… you are loved, and you are valued."

"Oh?" She remarked, her golden brows lifting in opposition. "By you, I presume? Certainly not by my family. They're furious at me for spending so much time with Cedric. They don't think he's good enough."

"Yes, by me." Theo replied instantly. Then he averted his gaze from her imploring green eyes to the ground, plucking absently at the blades of grass. "I'm starting to think that your parents don't think anyone is good enough for you."

"That's… half true." She admitted. "I think they would approve of you, if you were an ordinary, plain-old muggle like the rest of them."

He caught her teasing smile and chuckled under his breath, "You are not ordinary, Daph," he sighed, "_or_ plain."

That, he was happy to see, pulled a full smile from her. "Thank you, Theo," she murmured.

"About Cedric…" He began, steering the conversation back to one they'd already had (it had been unfortunately cut off after they'd kissed because Draco had needed him to discuss the new horcrux he'd found).

"Theo," she sighed, turning toward him with a particular sag in her shoulders that let him know he was about to be rejected.

"No," he breathed, backing away from her.

"Wait," she called out, pulling him back down to sit beside her. She kept her hand in his as she went on, and his heart pounded murderously in his chest. "I'm going to call things off with him. I am. I _do_ want to be with you it's just… I need time. I've been – well – close with Cedric for nearly nine months now."

He blinked.

"It's not easy and – well, with all of the societal rules – there's just so much at stake – really, I'm never going to live it down anyway once word spreads that I'm involved with you and – _Oh! _\- "

She broke off abruptly, staring into space.

"Daph?" He said, trying to coax her back to their conversation. Though he wasn't entirely sure it could be called that; more of a semi-comprehensible rant on her part.

"Oh, sorry," she said quickly, turning back to him with a soft frown. "I just don't see how any of this is going to go over well for me, but at the very least, when I break it off with Cedric, we are going to have to be very careful and secretive about us."

He grimaced, "Why?"

"It's – well, I suppose it's a muggle thing but – Hogwarts would spread rampant with rumours if we are too open too soon after Cedric and I aren't together anymore." Daphne told him delicately.

"I thought you said you two _weren't_ together as far as your muggle customs go," he pointed out.

She bit her lip momentarily before disregarding the bad habit. "Yes. Still… there's been a lot of talk of us and a lot of courtiers' eyes on us the last nine months. If I were to suddenly drop him and walk around on your arm…"

He sighed, "Yes, I suppose I can understand that." Theo looked at her with his lips pressed into a thin line. He curled his fingers around hers and then gently slid them up her bare arm, playing with the pretty blue lace she wore. "I still think it's complete rubbish that you care what they think about us, but I'll play along. For you."

Her lips quirked into a smile, bright enough to show her teeth and he felt his heart wrench. God damn Daphne Greengrass; she would be the death of him, surely.

Theo, admittedly, was used to holding the role of a ladies' man.

He grew up alongside Draco who had been too obsessed with the muggle world and too defiant to his parents to be very interested in witches even if they were practically throwing themselves at him with the off chance that might deign to give them enough attention to convince his father into marrying him off to one of them thus securing their position in the royal bloodline. He also grew up alongside Blaise who had been just as successful in turning witches' heads just from his looks alone but had been primarily interested in _wizards_ to give them the proper time of day.

Thus, it fell to Theo.

He was neither singularly sought out nor gorgeous enough to maintain their interests should he manage to capture their attention with his charms and flirts. Theo was profusely titled and extremely wealthy, but he knew both of those aspects would not matter to the right woman. And while he _was_ used to courting – or whatever the muggles call it – plenty of women, none of them were Daphne Greengrass.

Other than the fact that she was _the_ most beautiful person Theo has ever seen in his entire life, she was also the only person who made him feel alive. She brought out something in him that no one else ever could (except Draco but that would be in a purely platonic way). He had no control over himself around her; anything she asked of him, anything she wanted from him at all, and he was ready to give it to her no matter the cost.

She wanted to take her time breaking off with whomever she was currently entertaining? Sure – she could have as long as she wanted. He would kiss her and taste him on her lips in the meantime. It really didn't matter to him.

She wanted to keep their relationship or whatever she wanted it to be a secret? Absolutely – he would do it without question and for however long she had in mind because he knew she was his endgame.

The fact of the matter – the absolute bloody fucking truth of the situation – was that Miss Daphne Greengrass, ethereal muggle and maneater, had Lord Theodore Nott, Jr., ordinary wizard with a gravitation for trouble, in the palm of her hands.

Theo figured she probably didn't even know she had him wrapped around her finger; in fact, he theorized she had no idea she _also_ had Cedric Diggory in the same predicament. Perhaps that was why Theo got along so well with the bloke, but never mind that. It was unfortunate for him, absolutely, but what he and Daphne had was different. It was bigger than either of them, he was sure of it.

Whatever argument he had going into it would be lost in the wind the minute her green eyes met his blue ones and her ridiculously pink lips said his name – or said anything for that matter. The sound of her voice alone was enough to undo him.

She told him a week ago that she would break it off with Cedric.

For some reason, Theo didn't believe it would be over any time soon even with their talk about it; but he didn't mind. He would wait for her. No matter how long.

Any excuse she could give him, the worse the better, he would tell himself it was good enough. That whatever it was she said would be reason enough for him to stay. Theo would rather have Daphne walk all over him, step on his heart over and over, than walk away. He wanted her – he loved her – and she could give him the worst of her and he would willingly accept it.

All Theo saw was her.

He had it _that_ bad.

. . .

_13 June 1456_

_1:19 pm_

"I thought you said the Grindelwald army was still mostly unanswered for?" Draco asked Hermione.

She nodded, following his gaze. "Yes, they are. My High Constable believes they are not threat enough to require most of my best men guarding them. We still have a company watching them on the eastern border but since they would need to cross the mountain range to even get close to the castle well… I gave permission for those who wanted to partake in the Sorting Ceremony to return."

Commanders Moody and Fletcher had both returned for that very thing with the former being sorted into Ravenclaw and readily conversing with Lady Lovegood while the latter had been pronounced muggle and returned to stand along the walls with the other knights.

Next in line were Hermione's own close guards and close friends, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. Unsurprisingly to her, both of them were sorted into Gryffindor – Sir Finnigan, Seamus' father and Hermione's High Constable, had also been sorted into Gryffindor. The two boys greeted the Weasleys with beaming grins before returning to their posts along the wall closest to their queen – ever the most dedicated knights.

She gave them her best adoring expression hoping that for the time being – while she could not express to them in words – it told them how proud she was of them. Dean nodded loyally back while Seamus sprang her a cheeky thumbs-up.

Hermione laughed as she refocused her attention on Draco.

"I believe I'm losing this bet," she mused.

He smirked, "As I told you that you would, my radiating queen."

"Careful," Hermione warned tenderly. "You don't want your Minister to overhear you saying that."

He laughed outright and several heads nearby turned to see him looking warmly upon Hermione who equally glowed with delight.

"Oh, hell yes I do." He told her. "I very much want him to see me all but worship at your feet."

Hermione flushed. "Stop," she chastised.

Draco winked at her before turning his attention back to the next person to be sorted.

They were now moving into the true nobility and it was about to get very, very intense in the Great Hall. The entire Council would be subject to the Sorting Hat's whims and would have to abide by its decision, thus swaying their vote at the end of the day on whether or not Hermione's precious Amalgam Act uniting the two kingdoms – and approving her future marriage to Draco – would pass.

She fervently hoped Draco was right whether or not it meant that she would lose their bet. How terrible would another ride _really_ be?

So far it was about even. The Goyle family had all been sorted into the House of Slytherin while their close friends the Crabbe family had all been muggles; both families' fathers and sons were prominent Council members.

Lord Marcus Flint – and apparent love of Pansy though Hermione was glad that had been a lie – had been sorted into Slytherin as well (which after seeing so many Slytherin's back to back gave Hermione the perfect excuse to smirk at Draco and mouth, "Hope you're ready to give up your wand, love.").

Immediately after, though, Lord Zacharias Smith had been sorted into Hufflepuff (to which Draco turned to her and mouthed, "Get your riding gear ready, baby.").

Hermione was surprised that both of her former suitors, Lord Neville Longbottom and Lord Michael Corner (and their families) were all determined by the Sorting Hat to be, "MUGGLE," and without much hesitation.

"It's getting closer," Draco noted.

Hermione met his steady grey gaze, "I know."

"Are you nervous?" He asked her, searching her face for any hidden micro-expressions of worry.

She exhaled loudly – in the background the Sorting Hat loudly announced one of the Patil twins "RAVENCLAW," while proclaiming the other to be "GRYFFINDOR," which sparked a lot of hushed conversation in the Great Hall – and tapped her fingers against the glinted gold of the throne's elaborately decorated arm.

"I know you've thought about it – worked out every possible scenario to exhaustion," Draco added.

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "You know that better than anyone."

She'd meant it to be apologetic, having unburdened her enormous baggage of worry at his feet more than once since he told her of the Sorting Ceremony, but Draco had simply smirked and coughed to cover his laughter.

"Correction," he said once he was done. "I know _you_ better than anyone."

"They aren't mutually exclusive. Both can be true." She reminded him.

He shrugged. "Sure. Whatever you say, Your Majesty," he winked.

"Incorrigible," she mouthed to him. Again, he winked.

Hermione flushed.

. . .

_13 June 1456_

_2:58 pm_

Pansy hadn't said a word to Harry since he took a seat on the other side of Daphne (whom had been the very traitor to invite him to sit with them in the first place though how could she very well know how badly Pansy had ruined things with him).

She hadn't so much as spared him a glance even though she could feel his emerald green eyes boring into her every few minutes with what she presumed was equal parts hatred and longing. Which, regrettably, she deeply understood.

Instead, Pansy kept her dark eyes trained on Draco and Hermione, barely paying attention to anyone who took to the Sorting Ceremony. It was important, sure, but she honestly didn't care what directly happened because of it. It would make no difference to her miserable life so, why should she care?

It would be Hermione who would have the most to gain or lose from this day after all, and look at her – she was _glowing_, practically radiating as if Draco was the god damn sun itself, and she had never looked happier.

Pansy sighed.

She had never wanted what Hermione had – the title and the power – but in that moment Pansy never wanted it more. The absolute freedom that she held in her ridiculously small, _ringless_ hands was insane. That being said, if today went horribly sideways it would all be gone in an instant and Hermione could very well lose her pretty little head over her clear adoration in Draco (one long look at the two of them and it was _quite_ obvious they were more than innocently interested in one another).

Yet, there she sat. With a radiant smile across her face and the apparent love of her life returning it with ease.

How Pansy wished she could be so fortunate as to have that be her fate. For all her talk of practical marriages and loveless alliances, she was a young romantic at heart. She wanted stolen kisses, dancing until her feet ached, someone to hold when the nights grew cold, and _fuck it all _she wanted a fucking wedding; a massive one with the white gown and the catholic veil and the white fucking carriage to take them away.

She wanted it all… and she wanted it with Harry.

When his name was called, Pansy's head finally snapped to look over at him. This time he didn't look at her. Pansy frowned momentarily before schooling her face into an apathetic expression.

There was a lull in the chatter as he took his seat and bent his head in an inaudible conversation with the Hat. Her heart thumped murderously in her chest and all she could hear was the roaring of her own blood coursing through her body before the Hat sprang excitedly up and yelled, "BETTER BE… GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry flushed and immediately took a seat next to the youngest Weasley brother. The two of them talked animatedly and Pansy felt her heart sink at how easily he left her. No, she amended to herself. _She _left _him_. It was only fair.

When Pansy's name was called not long after, she fought the urge to find his green eyes among the crowded Gryffindor table and failed. His eyes sparked as she made her way up to the dais, but when she turned swiftly to fan out her skirts and take a seat, he was no longer there.

Another quick scan across the room revealed his messy black hair ducking through the double doors of the Great Hall.

Pansy shut her eyes, fighting back the stinging tears pricking behind her eyes at his exit, willing herself not to think what his lack of care for her future meant and gritted her teeth. She was _not_ going to let anyone see how upset she was; the thudding of her pulse in her ears was readily channeled from wounded to rage.

Pansy perched on the edge of the stool, let the Minister of Magic place the ugly tattered hat on her head, and coiled in on herself ready to unleash the bottled-up anger. The minute it touched her fine, expertly styled hair, she had a few choice words for it.

"Listen here, omnipotent overlord hat, I am none too pleased with you at the moment and though I very much detest the idea of ranting to a _hat_, I'm afraid it cannot be helped."

_Hmm… Alright... Go on._

"Well, first off," Pansy began in a hushed shout. "You took my handmaiden from me! She's overjoyed with being a witch and now I will have to find and train a new one. Do you know how utterly tedious and draining that it? Do you? No. I don't think so. I mean, sure, half the fun in having a handmaiden is the training. I am particularly skilled at berating people into behaving as their stature demands, but still. It's quite time consuming and I haven't the patience for it so… how dare you."

_Interesting… I see… Secondly?_

"I _could_ sit here and beg you to declare me magical to save me from having to go through that hardship. I could berate you and belittle you, stupid hat, until you give me what I want. I am also very good at that. I could – but I won't. And would you like to know why?" Pansy said.

_Why?_ The hat answered, half-intrigued and half-irritated.

"Because I don't care. Honestly, I don't. You can use your so-called mind reading or soul-searching skills to see it for yourself. I don't care if I'm magic. But do you know what I _am_ going to sit here and ask of you?"

_Hmph… _(definitely irritated now)_ What?_

"Make my parents magic. My father specifically. That would be exceptionally beneficial to me. If he were magic, then he would have to retract his current political stand and support Hermione's Amalgam Act, and do you know what else? HM? He would have to eat his words about my wanting to marry Harry. If I were magic and my father wasn't – that would do me absolutely no good. But if _he_ were magic it would not matter whether I was or not because there is nothing – _nothing_ – he could say that would hold any weight in an argument against my marrying Harry." She huffed, her chest rising and falling rapidly after the hushed argument.

_Are you quite done?_

"Above all," Pansy added – _Apparently not…_ The Hat mused – "He would hate it. He would absolutely hate himself. He loathes magic and I think him having to accept that he belonged to their world would be… well, it would be the best revenge a girl could ask for."

_Is that all?_

"For now," she sniffed. "That's it. Do whatever rubbish divination you must now."

"RIGHT THEN," the Sorting Hat said aloud for the entire Great Hall to hear, "SLYTHERIN!"

Pansy hissed at it, "What the fuck did I just say?"

_Patience, child… _

Pansy stepped down and nearly tripped over her skirts, quickly regaining her footing and striding forward to walk it off. At first, she headed toward the Slytherin table, sparing a glance toward Hermione and Draco – the former looked immensely proud while the latter smirked knowingly – but then just before she swept her skirts aside to take a seat beside Marcus, she blinked.

Something inherently clicked in the back of her mind.

She, Lady Pansy Parkinson Four-Names bestowed upon with titles and fortunes and circumstance, was _magic_.

Pansy stared at the space left for her at the Slytherin table and suddenly didn't feel the need to sit and stick around to see if the Hat would declare her parents to be magical as well. She picked up her skirts and headed for the exit as fast as ladylike manners and her uncomfortable heels would allow.

It took mere seconds to locate the roguish Duke and haul him into a nearby room (the War Room which seemed upsettingly fitting for them) and spun around to face Harry.

"Harry," she breathed.

"What do you want, Lady Parkinson?" He said, clenching his jaw.

Pansy swallowed the reflex to flinch at his harsh tone and held her ground. "Why did you leave?" She asked him.

He scoffed, "I had to check on something. I don't see why you should care about my whereabouts though," – again, Pansy tried not to flinch – "Or is that why you dragged me in here? To yell at me for missing out on your _moment_ in the Sorting Ceremony. Leave me alone," he spat.

Her nose scrunched despite her best effort to remain calm and collected.

"Fuck you, Harry," Pansy snapped. "I didn't mean now. I meant why did you _leave_?" She huffed, pressing her palms against his velvet vest and shoving him backwards. "Why did you leave _me_?"

"I - " He stopped, blinking. His eyes transitioned from narrowed and cold to open and confused in an instant. "You _told_ me to."

"I know," she said. "But why did you listen? Why did you fucking listen, hm? You never listen, especially not to me, so why did you? What changed?"

He gritted his teeth, a spark of anger flaring back up again. "You said you didn't love me. That I was just sex to you. Always was."

"You stupid, _stupid_ boy!" Pansy wailed, shoving him again so that he stumbled back against a bust. "Why did you believe me?"

"I - " Harry paused. "What?"

She groaned, "I _lied_!"

He took a moment to process this – her words, her frustration and her sudden pull of him into the secluded room – then responded with, "Why now? What changed?"

Pansy could have laughed at her own words being flung back at her. She wanted to laugh, and she thought maybe it would be a better release for her emotional overflow than what she was currently doing. But she couldn't quite manage a laugh because he was right.

He was right to question her.

She had blown things way out of proportion with them; firstly, by pretending it didn't matter the entire time, then by pushing him away every time he dared to hold her closer, and lastly by lying to him. She had told him that she never loved him – that he never meant anything to her more than sex.

But the truth is that Pansy had loved him for a very long time and had been too afraid to admit it even to herself. Now, she wasn't afraid anymore. What was there for her to be afraid of? The Hat had been a key factor in her recognizing this herself, though at the time he told her she belonged to Slytherin, Pansy hadn't fully grasped what it had done for her yet.

Now, she did.

Now, she knew, that it _didn't matter _whether or not her parents were magic because _she was_. She was. She was magic and there was nothing anyone could say or do to stop her from learning to yield this power she had deep inside of her, to unleash to potential that she had for greatness, and to be free to make her own choices.

Including whom she wanted to love.

So fucking what if her father wanted to have a stroke and disown her for choosing to love Harry and to marry him? So _what_? What could he _possibly_ do or say to her now that would hold any weight in her future?

Pansy had not realized of course that while she had been explaining all this to the Hat via her reasons for wanting her father to be of magical blood, she had already been giving herself enough of a reason to own her own future.

Harry had been wrongfully accused; his hands had been pinned behind his back because of something he didn't do.

He had always loved her, cared for her, and seen through her guarded mask at the woman she was, not the one she pretended to be. If he made her soft it was because she wanted to be better for him, _with_ him.

Harry had never forced into anything. Ever.

Not the first night they met when he wanted to dance with her. She'd said no and turned her nose up at him and while that hadn't stopped him following her around all night, trying to get her attention, he still hadn't forced her into sharing a dance with him.

Not a few nights later when he had asked for her hand in marriage, when he'd gotten down on one knee and begged her to see how perfect for each other they were. He hadn't taken her refusal too seriously either and kept close to her ever since.

Not after the many times they fell into each other's arms in between the sheets. He may have been rough with her sometimes, but there was always a question in his movements and in his eyes especially. _Can I touch you here? How about there? Do you like this? _

Even when he wanted her to fuck-all and runaway with him after her father blatantly disrespected her – and him – in the middle of the bloody corridor, he _still_ pleaded with her. He never played her games and he never mandated any part of their fucked-up relationship.

And what had she done?

She had explicitly told him what they had was nothing and that she wouldn't even let him refer to it as a relationship.

Pansy knew she fucked up big time with him.

She sighed.

"I lied," she said again, softer. Her eyes wilted as they searched his face for some sign of understanding, willing him to give her another chance. To hear her out. "I lied about everything before. The letters," she went on tentatively, "they were about you. All of them. It was never just sex."

Pansy took a deep breath, lifting her hands to placed them on his arms, letting her fingertips brush against the smooth fabric of his coat.

"I lashed out on you because of my father and I know that's no excuse, how trapped and attacked he made me feel, and I know there's nothing I can say now to take back what I said then," she paused, exhaling, "but I want to try."

He blinked at her, then nodded slowly.

"Harry you and I are… Well, we complement each other perfectly and while most of the time that ends up in our favor, sometimes it backfires. I know how to get under your skin just as you know how to spike my temper. We're good for each other until it's too good and then - " Pansy sighed, "Then I fuck it all up because I'm terrified of how good it is."

He swallowed, "Go on."

"You scare the hell out of me," Pansy admitted softly. "You loved me, like really, truly, _loved_ me. I don't know why I'm so fucked up – why my first instinct is to break something that I love – but I can see it," she said, her eyes flickering over his tight-lipped mouth. "I can see it on your face, that I can't make it right. I know I'm to blame for it, for everything, but…"

Pansy raised one of her hands, brushing her thumb across his cheek and cupping it when he leaned instinctively into her touch.

"I just wanted you to know that." She said. "That I know I'm to blame for us, and that I'm the one burned us down but it's not – it's not what I wanted, you _have_ to know that – I didn't want to do this to you. I didn't want to hurt you, Harry. I love you."

He closed his eyes, then opened them again and stared down on her with a resolutely softer expression than he previously had.

"I love you," Pansy said again. "I love you and I don't want to lose you."

She held her breath.

Then, his hand lifted to cover hers and he bent his head to touch his forehead against hers.

"Pans," he murmured delicately.

She let out something between a sob and a laugh, stepping onto the balls of her feet to press her lips against his. "I love you, Harry," she whispered against his mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her thin waist and holding her tightly against his chest. She hooked her arms behind his neck and put everything she had into the kiss, hoping to take back every horrible thing he suffered at her disposal; every mean name, every belittling of their relationship and every lie that broke his heart.

"I'm sorry," she said again and again against his lips. "I love you,"

Harry cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling away to look at her. His emerald green eyes capturing her attention as they always did. "I love you, Lady Pansy Parkinson, and you are not losing me. Ever."

She closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath she hadn't even been aware that she had been holding.

The air in the room shifted as his hands floated around to the back of her gown, tugging at the ribbon. She slid her fingers down his vest, unbuttoning it with skill and dexterity, then running her fingertips up his rigid abdomen as she rid him of his chemise as well.

His lips were hot against her throat, placing kisses down it and sucking on the fragile skin spread over her clavicle. There would be a mark in the morning, she was sure of it.

Pansy's gasps were uneven as his hands slid around to pull her loose corset and dress from her shoulders, then replaced his hands on her breasts with his mouth. Her nipple rolled between his tongue and then his teeth.

She let out a sharp hiss and something in her fluttered, low and wanting.

"Tell me that we'll be just fine," Pansy choked. By then Harry's hands had wound up her skirts and navigated through them to her slit. His thumb expertly rubbing against her clit through the fabric, effectively soaking her petticoats before pushing them down her legs and bending to replace his fingers once again with his sinful mouth.

"Harry," she moaned, knotting her fingers in his dark hair. He pushed her legs further apart with his shoulders, throwing a leg over one of them and returning to pleasure her. "Tell me that you're still mine, even when I lose my mind."

His tongue dove into her and then flicked mercilessly against her clit before running along her opening. His palm took its place, rubbing against her and creating a friction so tormenting and so _good_ that she had to bite down on her lip to stop herself from screaming out in pure agony.

His finger pressed against her clit, building the pressure inside of her and she was so close – _so fucking close _– that she cried out his name. "Harry," she said again, pleading, _begging_.

"Yes," he finally said, meeting her eyes and smiling up at her. "I am yours, Pansy, and you, you are fucking insane, but you are _mine_."

As he said that, his grin turned devilishly into a smirk. The fucking bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. She considered shouting a stream of obscenities, but all that came out was a moan as his mouth was hot against her clit again.

Pansy came hard, and with a blinding release of euphoria.

. . .

_13 June 1456_

_5:01 pm_

Hermione let her fingers fall off the arm of the throne, brushing them experimentally against Draco's; his head didn't turn in her direction, but he nudged her back. It was an almost indiscernible movement. Then he did it again, sliding his fingertips between hers in the poorest and yet most adoring attempt to interlace their hands.

He gave her a single, reassuring squeeze before letting go of her and clasping his hands tightly in his lap.

This was the moment the two of them had been waiting for after what felt like ages; the four most prominent members of her Council were about to be sorted.

The rest of her Council had been sorted and split – predictably according to Draco – evenly between wizard and non-wizard and then again between the four Houses. It was somewhat reassuring to Hermione that while she still loathed the ambition and old mindset of her Council members, their opinions were not all one-minded; she was relieved to see just as many Hufflepuffs as Ravenclaws and just as many Gryffindors as Slytherins.

It was foreboding that the last four of her Council members fates weighed so heavily. They were crucial to her act passing and for her future with not only the wizarding kingdom but with Draco as well.

Sir Finnigan had already been sorted into Gryffindor as he elected to take his sorting position with his charges, the Queen's guard, but dearest Uncle Colbert had yet to go. Despite not being one of the most prominent members of her Council – as the last three before Hermione to be sorted were – he still held a great deal of influence in his vote.

Hermione bit down on her inner cheek as her uncle sat on the stool before her. She couldn't make out his expressions since he faced the rest of the Great Hall, but the tension in his shoulders was evident. He was not pleased with whatever the Sorting Hat was saying.

She did not know for certain, but Hermione held a highly educated presumption that her father's side, the royal House of Granger bloodline, would not contain any magical blood. They had been ruling her kingdom for as long as it had been united and if there was any dalliance of magical kings or queens in the history, then it had surely been written over.

No, she thought, it was extremely unlikely that she would be magical from his bloodline.

However, Hermione feverishly hoped, her mother's side of the family _might_ contain magical blood. Uncle Colbert was, after all, her mother's brother and not from the royal House of Granger.

Draco had warned her not to let bloodlines influence her too much as there would children born to magical parents that were not magical themselves all the time; he told her it was just as rare but equally as likely that there would be magical children born to muggle parents.

So, even though Hermione tried not to, she clung to the Sorting Hat's next words as if it was deciding her fate and not her uncle's.

"HMM, RIGHT," the Sorting Hat pronounced after a lengthy and inaudible conversation, "MUGGLE,"

Uncle Colbert rose gracefully and took his seat again with an air of swagger and a crooked smirk.

Hermione swallowed with great difficulty, avoiding Draco's sidelong glance. She couldn't meet his eyes just now, she couldn't. She knew what he'd told her about bloodlines, but it seemed so far out of reach now – How was she to be the first and only queen of her kingdom with magic in her blood? What was the _chance_?

The next three gentlemen were sorted in what seemed like a blur – as if time had sped up while Hermione had been lost in her spiraling thoughts of her future – and before she knew it the Minister of Magic was calling out her name.

"Her Majesty, Queen Hermione Granger," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "It is your turn to be sorted, Your Majesty," he added in a low voice, bowing slightly.

"I love you," Draco mouthed.

A genuine smile crept over her lips, "I love you, too," she mouthed back.

He beamed.

Hermione stood from her throne and inched down the three steps of marble toward the small wooden platform.

Unfortunately, the other three of her Council members had been sorted troublingly evenly; High Council Fudge was sorted into the House of Slytherin, her Master of Coin, Grand Master Gringott had been muggle, and her Hand, Grand Master Snape had also been sorted into Slytherin. Thus, Hermione's proclamation would almost certainly sway the overall vote of her act.

She took deep breaths as she fanned out her enormous, layered white skirts.

They were decorated with ivory silks and had hundreds of pearls sewn into them. Pansy had insisted that she remain neutral in her color palette so as not to greatly influence the pompous fortune-telling hack of a hat (her words) and though Daphne agreed with the decision, ultimately dressing her in this gown, she had offered a different insight in that it would appeal to her subjects more, especially since they held her in high regard.

There was silence in the Great Hall.

A pin dropping would echo through the vaulted ceilings.

Everyone in the room took a collective intake of breath as Hermione bent to perch on the edge of the seat.

Dumbledore stepped toward her with his boots clacking loudly against the marble in the absence of sound in the room and held the Sorting Hat above her head.

It hadn't even touched her crown or unruly curls before it bellowed out –

"MUGGLE."

* * *

**A/N -** A gentle reminder to please be conscious of other readers and TRY NOT TO LEAVE SPOILERS in the reviews. Thank you! Much more Dramione moments to come now xx


End file.
